Black End Toast

Waking, stumbling, grappling, groping for the door;

He shuffles out into the passageway.

Two steps, three steps, four, five; counting each as he goes,

His goal the lavatory now reached, must be entered,

After a short but interminable minute, out he steps afresh,

His bladder voided but his hair still unkempt;

Crosses into the dimly lit kitchen, seeking morning tea and

sustenance. But what shall it be?

Kettle filled from the tap, and placed on the stove,

What is there to eat, while his kettle does heat.

Two semi-moldy slices of bread in a bag, on the counter he finds!

"Oh well," into the toaster they go and then to my tummy.

Forgotten but reminded as the toaster smokes, then pops.

Black toast! Wasted bread! Now wasted toast!

Who was he kidding? He still feels wasted himself.

I'll not waste this toast. But - no butter!

Cupboard flung open, nothing much there save a single

jar of Marmite; no nut butters or other spreads, or jams.

Well, on it goes then.

Marmite spread onto the toast.

What else?

Must put something else with it.

Oh, what's that.

Black rice like grains scattered about counter.

Did I have rice - wild, long grain or fried - last night?

Don't care; doesn't matter!

Sweeps the counter, collecting the grains, sprinkling over the Marmite,

It goes. Into his mouth, teeth not gnawing, nor gnashing.

Toast crumbles easily, so black as it is.

Chewing, hurriedly, not acknowledging any taste to his tongue,

Nor notice of texture or the grains within the spread,

Smacks his lips after one done, reaching for the second.

The corner, counter rat scurries off.

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