Original Poetry: Dinner In

Through my double-paned reflection
who looks less hurt than me
      is one piercing
      alley light, the faint
geometries of a brownstone,
           trees like an inkspill
           blotting everything else.

Our table bares your unsullied plate
and mine – barely touched.
      The stove has cooled
      onion and cabbage chips
in congealing butter. Raspberries
           and shiraz – exquisitely
           reduced. I wrap the steak.
 
 
 
 
 
[Check out other original poems here.]

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