The 4 O’Clock Notch

The toast is dry, the crust too hard,

but it’s the only bread I had left.

I’m sitting here, caught off guard

by this white ceramic, a little bereft.

My thumb finds the crater, a jagged moon

carved out of the rim by a sink-side slip.

I should have thrown it away by noon,

but I’ve always been one to tighten my grip.

It’s still a plate. It still holds the crumbs.

It doesn’t matter that the glaze is gone.

We keep the things that bruise our thumbs

just to have a place to lean upon.