New Math

He’s leaning on the counter in his undershirt,

scraping at a bagel like he’s digging in the dirt.

He uses the serrated blade, the one my mother keeps

sharp enough for holiday roasts while the household sleeps.

He doesn't ask for permission or look for a plate,

just stands over the drain in a half-awake state.

He’s a man I barely know, but I know how he chews,

and I know how he ignores the morning news.

He dips the knife in the butter, a heavy, golden smear,

leaving breadcrumbs behind like a record of a year.

I watch the yellow specks sink into the grease,

waiting for a war that looks too much like peace.