Sliced Bread

June 5 2016

A blunt blade

scraping burnt toast.

The raspy sound, the tug of resistance,

the sweet caramelized smell.

The sink could be just as well a coal-bin

as black carbon

crumbles off,

a cloud of dark malignant dust

billows up.

In the subtle shades of doneness

I almost expect to see

a likeness of something or other;

the Virgin Mary

a bathing beauty

some darkly revealed truth.

I scrape down to golden-brown,

saving, reclaiming

nothing to waste

as my frugal mother taught.

Cold toast,

soft centre, singed edges

clattering onto the plate.

The greatest thing since sliced bread

is breakfast spent

scraping burnt toast.

Among the small pleasures to be found

in the humdrum day-to-day.

Such minor virtue

in the most mundane of tasks.