The couple in the corner sits side-by-side
before two plates of eggs and two coffees.
He holds the morning paper in his left
and forks food and news to his mouth
with the right, so riveted by the latest
presidential barbarity that four bites in
he missed the plate and speared the table.
She, on the other hand, stares at or through
the window, unblinking, breakfast intact
but for the single taste of what he ordered
for her, a fleck of scramble adhered to her
lip like the last of her senses that have not
yet let go but will be wiped free when the
check is paid and the dregs of the cold black
coffee and the bitter truth are swallowed.
© Dana Hughes 3.5.18
Furthermore... 
What pain there is in this scene, all the more painful for having been played out at most breakfast tables most days. Two people at the same table in different universes, moving apart at the speed of despair. Your gift, I think, is reading the depths of these moments with clarity and courage, and no small bit of compassion.
Makes me think of Thoreau, “The mass of men [sic] lead lives of quiet desperation.”