Chaff

The radio is mostly static,

just a voice trying to say the weather.

You stand by the sink with the knife,

scraping the black off the toast.

The crumbs fall into the plastic bag,

a small rain of things that went too far.

We’ve sat here so long the linoleum

is starting to feel like our own skin.

The floral plate is chipped at the rim,

showing the dull gray underneath.

We are just waiting for the water to boil,

or for someone to call us by a name

we haven't outgrown yet.