Stutter

They would all
stutter their words
if they could talk.

The tablecloth would
twitch, torn and tapered
under itself, covering
a first and only finish.

The chairs would
mumble about
the carving into
of its legs by prams
pushed by babies.

The worktop would
stammer about the fried eggs
that bled and crusted
in a crevice.

The table would
stutter a smile about
the knife digs and the sliver
of the inside of finger.

Bets laid out for a roulette
of bullet-round memories.

Luigi Coppola teaches and writes in London, England. Poems have appeared/will appear in: Acumen, Anon, Algebra of Owls, Antiphon, The Asses of Parnassus, Equinox, 14, The Frogmore Papers, Gold Dust, Ink Sweat & Tears, Iota, Lighten Up, Magma, The Ofi Press Magazine, One Sentence Poems, Orbis, Other Poetry, Pennine Platform, Poetry Digest, The Rialto, THE SHOp, Snakeskin, SOUTH, Strange Poetry and Stride Magazine. Poems, recordings and information can be found at https://luigicoppolapoetry.blogspot.co.uk

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