She stopped loving me today,
over coffee and the morning news.
When the ham steaks were done, she slid
one for herself and let the other smolder.
She stopped listening to apologies
and started mincing her eggs,
grating silverware deep into Lenox china.
With a piercing stare she handed over black toast
spread with reprisal and stale butter.
She poured me one last cup,
decaf,
filled with the contents of the salt shaker
her mother had given us.