The Machinery of Ordinary Sundays

The toaster clicks off.

I freeze,

mid reach,

bread in hand,

caught between burnt and still edible.

Everything waits.

Heat radiates off the chrome.

My face warps in the side,

nose stretched,

mouth blurred,

like a stranger, that I don't know.

Far off, I hear a garbage truck,

hydraulics wheezing

through their morning routine

three blocks away.

Reliable.

Loud, enough to wake the dead.

I haven’t changed socks.

Yesterday lingers in them,

and maybe under my eyes.

The floor makes a popping sound in one spot.

I always forget where.

The toast pops up.

Golden-ish.

Corner burnt.

Like it knows how I didn't like my toast.

I don’t blame it.

Steam curls upward,

carrying the smell of heat

and something older

bakers in hairnets,

working while I was still dreaming

of things I don’t admit anymore.

The fridge kicks in

with that familiar rattle.

I thought I fixed it last winter.

Turns out,

I only talked about fixing it.

The knife rests,

metal catching the light,

like it knows

it's being watched.

This is the part where I decide:

Jam or nothing.

Eat over the sink or sit.

Call it a meal or a moment.

Either way, I’ll still be here,

in this Sunday

an empty house

and forgiving shadows.

The truck finally turns the corner.

That diesel smell

feels like a nasal spray

I pick up the toast.

Take a bite.

It’s uneven.

Hot in some places,

cold in the middle.

I chew.

I stay.

Nothing else

asks anything of me.