While the grey cat sleeps
He pours her oatmeal
In a cup
He hands her coffee
And in silence
They brush lips
As if to kiss;
She sleep walks
To the door,
With the texture
Of oatmeal on her tongue,
So hot, she spits some out,
Sipping coffee, she watches
From the door:
The sun shadows across
The mowed lawn where
Lavender blooms and
The grey cat wakes,
Labor Day is here.
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neighbors churning the Q
a wafting aroma tickles
heading right to you.