Thursday, April 17, 2008

Poem by Martin Swords

Breakfast for One

Breakfasts were special.
Two plates.
Two eggs.
Cup and saucer.
Egg and spoon.
Salt and pepper.
In kindness people ask.
I cannot tell.
Nor wish to.
One plate is lonely.
The egg is spoiled.
No pepper.
I never liked it.
Only the salt is set.
Only the sharp taste.

Martin Swords
April 2008

copyright Martin Swords 2008

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