Wrinkled Peas

Form: Free Verse

It’s late as I finish typing the last word
and supper sits cold on the table
the rhythm of your breathing stretches 
through my mind
for soon I will join you in sleep
the soft aroma of roses taunts my nose
as I eat a forkful of wrinkled peas
they didn’t survive the microwave
nothing much does at 3 a.m.
so, I settle for a fresh cup of tea
as I slide into our bed
moving close to you for a few hours
until the alarm sounds at 6
and to the keys I am chained again
each word
each line
a step closer
as they fall out my mind onto the screen
each word for our future
each line for our destiny
as they grow like sturdy seedlings
so a poet can support his wife-
well, that’s the theory

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