I still wake up and smell coffee brewing.
Even though,
The *** is gone.
You took it with you on the same day you said,
You didn’t like poetry.
It made me feel like the tree in my front yard.
My neighbors refuse to let us cut it down,
Even though everyone knows it’s dead.
Now I try to rest my comfort in
A mug of chamomile
Or over a book I know you’ll never read.
Because in the winter we went to a book sale
Where you bought me a latte
And, let me read you poetry.