A loaf alone is a tray of possibilities,
Yeast rises into form,
And then into slices.
An end piece would suffice,
But it is only one-sided.
So I choose a slice from the center.
I feel the spongy pores
within a soft yet formed crust.
I drop it,
And it cuts through the air,
Landing in the slot, surrounded
By coils about to fire.
I adjust the dial,
And lower the lever
Until it sticks.
The spread is ready,
But I am not... tick ching.
The lever races up and locks back,
And for a moment
golden brown perfection
Is suspended in the air.