The Hands Holding the Book

The hands holding the book
Slowly drift to her sides
As her breaths grow shallow and slow.
The pale, wrinkled face
Turns slack and relaxed
As the pot bubbles on low.

The gray, wizened man
Stares at the large screen
As smoke creeps into the air.
She wakes just in time
To save pan and house,
As he watches on without care.


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