Burnt Spoons


Burnt Spoons

She left a burnt spoon
with a milk stain stink,
on the kitchen’s counter
next to the sink

My face fell and hit
the poorly tiled floor,
when she locked herself
behind a brown bedroom door

Now, getting dolled up to
go looking for a score,
but hits me up for cash
because she said she’s poor

When did loving her
become a chore?
When did my love,
become a revolving door?

 

© Volatalistic Phil 2012, White Wedding Lies, and Discontent: An American Love Story

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