Over Breakfast (Poetry)

They’d played verbal Punch and Judy for so long
to entertain themselves — each sharp exchange
a dig at disillusion and the pain
of getting old.

Visitors, like extras, came and went.
We mostly sat and watched the plot unwind,
nonplussed at cruelty — the acutely timed
opening of wounds.

The last scene, over breakfast, unobserved.
She’d boiled two eggs and cupped them, buttered toast —
both seated at the table when he froze,
his mug of tea untouched.

Who knows how long she waited for her cue,
before she noticed that his egg remained uncracked,
blood pressure pills, twin spots beside his plate,
untaken while she ate.

She didn’t phone for someone right away,
finished off her egg and toast, every crumb.
It had been quick — nothing she could have done,
the paramedic said.