A SORT OF FEAST

I put
delicious rainsIn bread
into the toaster.

 

I stand and wait
a knife in hand
poised to take on butter
when the toaster declares
its work is done
and releases
what I long for
all hot and browned.

 

“ POP” I hear —
my impatience tamed —
the tongs — the lift
and the butter spread.

 

Alas, a sort of feast
while standing there
alone and munching.

 

Could it be
that this event of mine
will overshadow
everything I do today?

 

Could be
that this event
will usher in some joy
that may exceed
all other entrees
offered to a man
whose obligations
have decreased
with mounting years.

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