Orange Juice

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Hear the rustle of the morning

paper; his face is hidden, lips
tight – dreaming of his name
in headlines.

My elbow knocks a cup of
orange juice, it slowly spreads –
his toast is soaked – as one
drip follows another as it creates
a thin line, one drip followed
by another – off our old painted
metal table onto his pressed pants.

The linoleum – coated yesterday –
freshly polished like his shoes.

I am hiding beneath the table –
he never saw me enter the
kitchen:  His head buried
while reading the news.

I hold tight to
a rusted leg of our table.

The juice drips faster – he
continues to read – now, the  juice forms
into a puddle – turning  a deeper
shade of orange.

The edge of his paper begins to
drink juice too – he still doesn’t

notice it, and I am still hiding
beneath the table, waiting for his
morning ritual to end.

Soon he will notice the orange
liquid, dripping down one pant
leg.

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