The shovelled snow of cuticle
so you can feel the smooth nail
then the dry knuckle.

Every morning, waiting for your toast,
you shovel clear the nail
of your white cuticle, leaving it
piled beneath your crescents at
the edge of the ridges you stroke
with the back of your thumb at breakfast,
half-eaten toast hanging like
a windless flag from your mouth.
You ponder at buttered toast and orange
juice glasses, at my cup of coffee.

Every morning, waiting for your toast,
you shovel clear the nail
of your white cuticle, leaving it
piled beneath your crescents.
You ponder at buttered toast and orange
juice glasses, at my cup of coffee,
half-eaten toast hanging, a windless flag
from your mouth. I turn for refills.
Under the table you stroke your nail
ridges with the back of your thumb.