The coffee is cooling a skin on the top

The coffee is cooling, a skin on the top,

but I’m waiting for the internal ticking to stop.

I’ve spent twenty minutes making sure that the salt

isn't leaning away or at some kind of fault.

I align it exactly with the placemat’s blue thread,

while the sun moves a fraction of an inch overhead.

Then I turn to the toaster, the chrome like a shield,

where a single smudge waits to be finally healed.

I polish the metal until my reflection is clear,

ignoring the smell of the bread burning near.

It’s a quiet sort of war, keeping the lines on the floor,

so I don't have to think about what the mess is all for.