Forgetting breakfast for tea and last night’s scrawled
lines over wine and a midnight muse,
we finally break eggs, butter toast, call it brunch.
The pan, long-cooled, ignored on the stove —
coffee is poured, the landscaper’s bill
pushed behind the sugar bowl —
a laundry marathon spins out at the top of the stair,
wringing thread-bare towels of their last hope.
We are picking peaches with Li-Young Lee
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