toasted snippets of crispy information
lie on white plates rapidly cooling
while lips dry into deserts
of steel-toe apathy

stale bread waits, uneaten
growing fuzzy colonies of mold
that scream in delight at your
dipper-dapper disinterest

breadcrumbs blaze new trails through
forests of great-grandfather clocks,
looming ominously as they sing
tick-tock with woodpeckers where

a manic imp bakes loaves for
several forevers in an attempt
to escape its inevitable
decomposition

grasping at salvation and
fumbling for words that slip
from buttered fingertips

better luck next time