The Sharp Edge of the Breakfast

The table is buried in bills and old mail,

so I’m down on the rug where the carpet is pale.

I’m eating dry toast off the Blue Willow scene,

but the porcelain’s missing a chunk of the green.

I’ve had it three years—or maybe it’s five—

since the move where only two plates survived.

I run my lip over the unglazed, grey grit

of the canyon where something heavy once hit.

It scrapes at my skin, a small, grit-toothed bite,

reminding me I haven't quite fixed my life right.

There’s a spiderweb crack moving slow through the lake,

waiting for one more morning to break.