Crispy Edges

He’d toast the bread, then pull the thing

from underneath the sink, and sing

some off-key tune. A hair dryer, meant

for curls, not for the heat he sent.

Right at the crust, for crispy bite,

a ritual, morning, noon, and night.

I thought that everyone, you see,

blew hot air on their toast, like he.

Then learned, much later, it was just

our strange, hot, counter-scattered dust.