Pry this chest with your chef knives and
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sharply wound me with your surmising eyes
I tire of the shout
and the ever-present angst-manifest
on the table: Why must you hail it in bold
in the living room
for all to see?
It was done.
Must I see it on breakfast
upfront with fat bulging pancakes
and be damned to remember this fault?
Reminds of your cooking and him.
And me and her and all that followed.
I could not go on and on for weeks
on regular days
but not when it is about you, you know;
I never thought love comes
in unexpected packages you see,
where even in rancid butter
and distasteful plates and spoons
sorry whispers are found in sweet sauce.
Lived and chopped in bitter barks
But swallowed in a mouthful and
commended as magnificent pasta.
Let it ring and echo and wail
in my ear everyday; that you had
your fault as I did mine.
But won't we still eat and dine
and in this vegas table tonight?