These crumbs on the table
crunch under plates and waterglasses and cat paws.
They have been there for days, weeks possibly.
I do not know.
I cannot wipe them away.
Some have been ground to a dust
that stains the table where a cup overturned.
Some are bound together with stray hair.
I draw my finger through them and cringe.
They are like old men or dry husks or insect shells,
and I cannot get rid of them.
They fall to the floor and stick to my feet.
They are more than I can bear, and, still,
I eat toast.
I am my own curse.