White Toast written by Nate Simpson at Spillwords.com

White Toast

White Toast

written by: Nate Simpson

@transit_diary

 

Each morning, she grabs the
same mug. He puts the same
plate on the same maple
table. The same sun stabs
the same blinds, zebra stripes
their faces; one eye in
the dark, one in the light.

Plastic kitchen clock hands
stuck at half past eight, scenes
are marked and timed by his
buttered white toast’s crust’s crunch,
each thick-red-lipped slurp of
her coffee, their kids the
incessant noise on set.

Sticking to script he says
nothing, rather than: I’ve
outgrown you, outgrown us.
She plays along, saying
nothing instead of: I’m
tired and bored of you, you’re
not the man I married.

The play ends each night, the
same set still mounted for
the next day’s performance,
stage curtains held aloft
over the still, dark house
by their customary
whispers of deferral.

Nate Simpson

Nate Simpson

Nate Simpson writes, runs, lives, and works in Toronto, Ontario.
Nate Simpson

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