Reparation Hour

In the fridge lies your bowl of beaten coffee,
the scrambled eggs slide off the pan
and into your plate.

You are foraging the table for the wrong knife
to butter your bread,
a portion of lettuce sits
like a statement waiting
to be understood,
on the tray to your left.

You and I are busy verbalising thoughts,
the regular morning espresso
brews in a corner
to cushion the sting of headlines
and crisp rants extracted from Excel spreadsheets.

There are words falling into our plates,
yet the loudest sound in the room
is of the gaps between them.