The Last Straw

The lovely lacework from the eggs
I fried this morning pales and softens,
Like Ophelia, soaking in the water
In my kitchen sink. I thought it
Wouldn't be this way. There's coffee
On my magazine. A wadded napkin's
On her plate. The tiniest of tragedies
Sometimes are those which sting the
Worst, the straws which break the
Camels' backs. She stood up, strangely
Teary-eyed. She grabbed her purse,
And, saying nothing, found her keys
And drove away, and I, now numb,
Only can guess: she didn't like the eggs.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 104 times
Written on 2014-03-08 at 17:06

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