Bored to death with eyes cast upward
she drifts by his sprawling legs
like fog rolling in from the sea

Newspapers clutter the breakfast nook
his ink-stained fingers clutch ceramic
birthday cup — last year’s surprise

Today the cup, the tea, his only distractions
The sweep of her garment
grazes his back unnoticed.

She’ll pour the final cup of breakfast tea
and settle into her longings,
empty as her teapot.