Tea and Toast

Antique chairs invite.
To sit would be to accept the inevitable.
Tea and toast await.
But not just yet.

An old Singer zig zags from across the room.
The ghost of my mother on the treadle.
I am drawn to her side.
But your hand pulls me back.

Dust awaits those who succumb.
Dust for those who do not love.
Walking dust they already be.
Dust is all the loveless see.

I'll look beyond another time.
Mother's comfort will have to wait.
My focus is on the here and now.
My thoughts are of our common fate.

So when I stray and view the end.
The end of tea and toast.
The end that suggests comfort.
I will take your hand again.