American Peanut Butter Toast

“Maybe some peanut butter…

Or other stuff if there isn’t enough.”

 

I confusedly spoke standing center kitchen.

The yellow drop-leaf table listened.

 

Likewise, she stood as if she had sort of missed something.

Almost leaning, almost touching stacked upright drying dishes.

 

The Leopold Stickley held ground on four legs, glistening under energy-efficient bulbs, acting convenient witness.

Not speaking by fault.  Wanting not to pick scabs, or pull out prematurely healed stitches.

 

I stood on two legs in my boxers looking for a sitting contraption.

She stood the same as I, watching, waiting for a different reaction.

We all exuded patience-I, my companion, and the inanimate furnishings in our location.

 

Morning time.  Glory be mine.  We are all fine.

These are just different situations.

 

We really are.

All Americana and cohabitation,

And then we were off to work.

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