Wednesday at seven-o-five he slammed the door you pulled yourself up off the beige kitchen tile, wiped your mouth with the backside of your hand. He skidded out into the road in his blue Camaro. You let the front curtain fall back into place, bent down and smeared the blood across the tiles, boiled water for macaroni. Thursday at seven-fourteen you measured the coffee. He kissed you on the cheek, said you looked sexy, fished the sports section out of the paper. You spread the jam on burnt toast, opened the curtains. He backed out onto the street, waved. You scraped the breakfast plates into the trashcan. Friday at seven-twenty-one he slammed the door You rolled over the brown carpet, hand at your side. He screeched out of the driveway. You stumbled to the freezer, held the icepack to your eye, loaded the dishwasher with your free hand.
Posted inPoetry
Burnt Toast: A Study
