The art of silence hangs, habitual, over breakfast:
pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon, limp like he
likes. Color bleeds, apple into orange, crystal
and silver, washed by morning light and she hides,
behind salt and pepper lines of the paper. Partial
profile barely shows; below the fold are yesterday's
hot items. She studies comics like Picassos, values
their beauty and pities imprisonment in frames.
Still Life on Sunday Morning
