Packed Lunch
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Matt Varley Guided by a sleepy hand The polished spoon gleamed; Smudged by murky rivers of white Tainted with islands of wheat. The lover of my mother, Father to those not his own Selfless devotee to tradition, Slaves through his morning routine; Bread buttered, snacks chosen, Making lunch for the others, Unfit to make it for themselves A selfless task, Committed before the kettle boils The grace of the sleek, harmless blade Gliding across the starchy canvas Not a speck of white remains. Ham precisely placed, Routine. Knife down, kettle screams To grace mug with dark nectar, As he too sighs, Carrying blackness out of the room.
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