you're sitting across from this sharp-tongued old lady at the breakfast table,
she has odd clothes, a double chin and boots that squeak.
You don't like her much, but she doesn't like you either.
It's a mutual annoyance.
You're sweating a little because she makes you nervous,
and you forgot to put on deodorant before leaving the house,
and she's scrunching her face up and sniffing loudly to let you know that she can smell you.

You watch her as she eats, slowly, as if she'd never eat again,
crumbs from her toast sprinkle her face, you want to reach out and brush them off for her,
but you're afraid that your fingers will melt into her butter-like skin.
The thought was real, and unconscious.

The sort of way a boys thoughts should always be, if you ever get one like that,
keep him in that state as long as you can.