Sunday Mourning
Real butter for a change, melts on my toast
with apricot jam thickly spread like I like it.
Cold, caloried cream swirls in freshly brewed coffee
with a teaspoon of real sugar.
Habits die hard; having just cooked an omelette
for two now only one will eat.
Glasses slide low on the bridge of my nose;
Sunday paper ready to go.
The pool’s blue tiles glisten under
the early sunshine.
What a glorious morning
this could have been.
.
.
About the Author:Mike Acker lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. He has lived in various parts of the world; his early education was in German and French. While living in California, he worked as a professional translator. Mike enjoys writing short poetry, especially with the intent of exploring the possibilities latent in a single image.
As It Ought To Be 
I’m headed to the funeral of a dear uncle’friend this morning. I find comfort in this sharing. Thanks
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