Sweet cherry marmalade
drips on your morning fingers,
oozes over thick, saltless butter,
spread on French bread, still warm,
while two cubes dissolve
at the bottom of your cup.
She sits across the table
in her robe, caring
in the freshly painted day.
This is breakfast every morning.
In fifteen you are due at the Institut.
You trust your mouth to the serviette.
She lights her cigarette,
and sucks in the first smoke of the day.