by Anthony Tompkins

Created on: March 29, 2010   Last Updated: April 01, 2010

My Way is the way to quiet toast


My way is to watch the bread,
Burnt lightly,
It is breakfast or some, almost,
This small portion an afterthought
A one prayer offering to the Gods,
Who watch out for our morning toast,

She drinks coffee,
Most days halfway down the cup,
Reheating the brew till nearly noon,
Never finding all the bottom,
Half way gone is near enough

The spoon can speak;
     The notes the same,
Everyone else can hold their breath,
Nothings said that's worth a damn,
Since the sun came in to call again,
And all this mumbled shuffling,
Is what we have since dream-time left

I won't disturb her,
Not till the coffee's done it's work
I'd rather sit and stir this brew now,
 Not admit that the words have left us,
As have touch and sigh and malice,
This stirring rousing all the murk.

My way come
And Saturday gone,
These patterns tracing weekends theft,
Of the times when talking had a season,
The floor gave back the old time echoes,
Before coffee gave us means to silence,
Toast burned lightly all that's left.

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