I'm predisposed genetically to love
toast. One grandmother ate toast every
morning of her life. The other
grandmother made toast and served
it crisp and hot to others half a loaf
at a time straight from the griddle
on her Monarch stove.
Mom says I started to gain weight
at eleven when I came home after
school and made toast. Never mind
the abuse and infidelity and illegitimate
lostness I buttered my miserable
observations with. Nobody knew
how I hungered for comfort.
I skipped the free school lunch
for poor kids. Looking Amish or
wearing a burka wasn't as hip
as it is now. The difficult process
of gaining access to free food wasn't
worth the risk of more ridicule.
I recently heard about a cafe named
Trouble in San Fransisco where people
come to eat cozy, expensive toast.
My shirt front ended up soaked
by the time I finished the article.
Tears not drool.
Toast and troubles.
Troubles and toast.
I'm not alone yearning
for reassurance and comfort?
People pay big bucks to crunch through their
loneliness elbow to elbow, bite by bite,
and slice by slice with other kindred souls
who leave their smart phones off
when they step through the door. Lines
go around the block. People become
neighbors and friends waiting to crowd
through the door. I dream about poetry being
born again around tables laden with warm
toast and hot tea.
