Sunday Papers Poem by Mark Heathcote

The coffee pot has gone cold.
I can see it clearly in her eyes,
there's no more steam or caffeine.
Demerara sugar or cream…
there are no more shortcake biscuits,
flittered away afternoons with
silkily discarded nicker-elastic trinkets.
But thankfully, for little mercies,
there are the Sunday papers, and
lots of lukewarm tea on tap.
But thankfully, for little mercies,
there are the Sunday papers, and
lots of lukewarm tea on tap.