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Wednesday
Jan282009
Crumbs
Wednesday, January 28, 2009 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.
(also posted at Schmoetry)
Reader Comments (7)
Your poem made me laugh, Schmutzie. Thanks!
I'm feelin' ya.
The waistband on my jeans grows tighter.
It is more than I can bear, and, still,
I eat tortilla chips.
I am my own curse.
And your love is the dust in an old man's cuff who is tapping his foot to a tune...I don't know, you had me thinking Leonard Cohen.
God I love that quick, clean, unexpected turn: " ... and, still,
/ I eat toast." Brilliant.
Exactly! These could be song lyrics!
Love it, nice work.
Nope, not a curse, much stronger than me. See, I don't eat toast because I can't bear the crumbs.