Silver spoon to her ruby lips,
gently she blows to cool the broth.
The same soft two she used to kiss.
Yet we are cut from different cloth.
They gather every supper time,
the table set per etiquette.
The service forks with down turned tines,
the tri-fold napkins, wine, baguette.
Discussing events from their day.
Father, Captain of Industry,
his exploits widely praised, I’d say,
smacked a bit of hyperbole.
I watched her delicately chew,
thirty times, each and every bite.
The door ajar as I peeked through,
to see her eyes sparkle so bright.
She had not even noticed me,
my hiding place out of her view.
Two lumps of sugar in her tea,
first a stir, then a sip or two.
They retire to the sitting room,
each evening I clear the dishes.
When all alone I kiss her spoon,
and dream of her love, ah … wishes.
M. Zane McClellan
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