Foreign Fabric
Her pale hands ruffled the
Dark red dyed tartan,
Enjoying the feeling of fibers
Lighter, looser, but rougher than cotton.
“Here, feel this,“ she purred,
And I let the drape slip
Through my hands, watching
The elephants, red,
Marching in a circle of time, a yearly event.
Breaking Fast with Father
Breakfast was a strange meal.
It seemed too close,
For that explosive pineapple
To cut your tongue.
The tea hung on your conscience,
And bit you with guilt.
Was it worth the egg on your face?
That tasteless bagel, with bitter white topping,
You chewed like penance.
© Hugh Cook
Hugh Cook attends University of Santa Barbara, California, studying Writing and Literature. His poetry has been published in The Catalyst literary arts magazine.
The Loch Raven Review 