Burnt Toast and Begging

The photo arrived, a quick flash

of comfort. Her new cat, a calico sash

of fur, curled up on the counter. And there,

the fruit bowl, chipped, right where

I'd given it to her, ages ago, I guess.

It smelled, suddenly, like burnt toast.

That old toaster oven, the one she loved most,

blackened edges, a permanent cloud

that hung near the ceiling, never allowed

to quite dissipate. And the dog,

her ancient retriever, a hairy old log,

would lie by the fridge, eyes glued to the spread,

waiting for scraps from her hand, or her head.

It was always a mess, her kitchen, a sprawl

of cookbooks and bills, leaning against the wall.

But it was warm. Always warm, always full

of something simmering, or a laugh she'd pull

from her gut. And that cat, a small new life,

claiming its spot, cutting through any strife.

I miss the ease of it, the unquestioning din,

that familiar, comforting, burnt toast kind of sin.