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Always, you bring me your thoughts
thinking I did not have any of my own
And always, I take them from you, gently
placing them in a box
beside the kitchen stove,
a bread box like the one mother promised to me
when I married,
but you claimed it as your birthright. Yes,

that is where I keep them, there, in the box
wrapped in cellophane,
plain see through cellophane;
not that green color they sell on TV-
I do not know if I believe
all they say about it, like its ability to prevent
wrinkles on your fruits.  No, I do not believe

that.  After you leave
I turn off the kitchen light
and go off to bed,  next to an old goose down pillow
that used to keep me up all night
the cat sleeps there now

The next morning I awake
to coffee and to apple yogurt;  apple yogurt that I
spread on a slice of the thoughts
you gifted the night before, and while truly

tasting them for the first time
I sip my coffee and realize why I missed
you  so much when you married
and left home
so many years ago – with my bread box

copyrighted 2009