Hard Yellow

The curtains are holding the smell

of the bread I forgot to watch.

It’s a charcoal scent, thick

and sticking to the fabric like grease.

I sat there for twenty minutes

staring at a jagged crack in the floor

where the linoleum is peeling back

to show the old, gray wood.

The butter won't move.

It’s a hard yellow lump sitting

in the divot of a chipped plate,

cold and stubborn while the toast

turns to stone on the table.