Edward Doegar

Three Poems

Sustenance

Tonight, it’s steak. You wouldn’t cook
Usually, not alone. I understand.
We read each other like a book
We’ve read before, thrillers scanned
For their endings. Flavour is in the fat,
I suggest, as you trim the meat clean.
Conversation has become an act
Of admission. We say what we mean.

 

Comments are closed.