The bread is
three days stale;
the toaster
singes the edges.
The jam from
the farmer’s stand
is runny and bland.
At least the coffee
is never too strong
for us.

It’s barely anything 
–  I didn’t even make eggs.
We’ll crunch and sip
in silence,
except to grouse about
another batch of rain,   
until you get up 
to put in a load of whites 
while I put up
last night’s dishes.

Isn’t this also what we live for?

These dull tones 

to paint a beautiful life?