Toaster
a repost of a poem, written in high school by yours truly.
They say
350 degrees
Five minutes
Perfect toast
Why?
Why not six minutes
Why not 300 degrees
Why not make toast on a stovetop?
There is no why.
Only instructions fixed upon the heavens
Like how the sun shines every morning
Or the grass grows during the summer
Some things are immutable
Inevitable, even
Like death
Or taxes
The coils glow softly
The butter, in its porcelain tray
Softens from the heat
Of the toaster
I do suppose some things never change
But even still
Bread becomes toast
Eggs become omelets
The laundry always finishes
The leaves always fall
The car always rusts
The knives always dull
Time always slips away
It was only a moment ago
When I moved into this house
And now, I’ll be leaving soon
So many memories
Cooped up whilst plagues rampaged the world over
The wonders of living in such a small home
So much, so soon
It’s almost surreal
Just two years back, I was home
Hungry
For a well deserved breakfast
But we didn’t have a toaster
That was still in my old home
Granted, I still see it sometime
But this crappy oven is just not the same
And one day, we swap
My mother, carrying my beautiful
Hamilton Beach TOASTSTATION™
Like she carries a child
And she took away
Our old Black and Decker toaster
Like saying goodbye to someone
You never really knew
An old friend
Back after a long journey
Without you, there was no warm toast
Only cold, stale bread
Our countertop only had
A rice cooker, with an acrid garlic stench
A dirty electric kettle, never once cleaned
A loud and ugly coffee grinder, vomiting coffee grinds everywhere
And even then, the crummy bag of
Cafe Bustelo inevitably
Goes flat, and I’m stuck
With nothing but lipton tea bags and chocolate syrup
If I was Dante
Writing Inferno
This must be the 9th layer of hell
The greatest traitors condemned
Brutus, Cassius, Judas
All milling about
In my kitchen
Bored out of their eternal souls
The refrigerator, devoid of anything remotely delectable
The pantries, stocked with nothing but the blandest non-perishable goods
The counter, with the lonely utensils
And the breadbasket, with a single lonely loaf, two crusts and one slice
It is not the lack of food
But rather the lack of soul
That eats away at a man
Breaks them down
Renders them into a husk of their former selves
There are no snacks
There is only busy work
Only empty cups and unwashed dishes
As you let the voices consume you
I will chug a whole pot of coffee
I will eat peanut butter straight out of the jar
I will drink olive oil and eat frozen butter
Hell, i’ll even start running
Or staying up so late the sun rises
Just to feel something again
Anything, to see my friends again
KA-CHUNK
Two slices
Of the finest bread
Toasted.
To Perfection.