Buttered Toast
She spreads the butter
on a square of toast
with scratching impatience,
smearing and slapping
the hardened bread
with a dainty butter knife.
She uses a fork like a harrow
in the jelly jar,
leaving lines across the top
where she dragged it across,
then glops it on
unevenly.
She uses a fork.
because she likes to lick the bits
between the tines,
and feel the hard metal
with jelly in her mouth.
Scrape, scrape, scrape
with the butter knife again.
I love her hurrying hand
that orchestrates
this action every morning.
The cinnamon toast
is slightly burnt,
and her sleeve is damp
from the coffee spill
on the linoleum table.
A crumb clings to her jawline.
She takes a guzzle, not a sip
from her cup that says:
“The Queen of Everything”
and smiles at me, knowingly.
In the backyard, the goldfinches
returned to our feeders.
A small female
turns her beady eye
toward us
with shared understanding.
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