Poems

This Day Our Daily Bread

It’s as if the plastic bags
had become the sofa’s latest outfit
because why remember the dead
and gather dust in the house
 
The cobwebs emigrate
and the ants carry on
taking the last crumb from
a home, sweet home
 
Mamá cooks, sweeps, and eyes me
with that constant complaint,
and when she wanders round the garden
it’s to search for empty nests
 
When the gate clicks again,
she smiles, the dog comes in and asks
if today we have a little left 
of our absurd daily bread

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