Toast, In Particular

Cheap fluffy bread slices.
Pulled carelessly out of their plastic seal. Tossed onto the counter without sight. Reflexes engaged in conversation.

I'll be awake soon.
Escaped from all the household sounds.
That have amplified with the sun.

The toaster button's pressed.
Forgotten until it reminds.
Until then the eggs need stirring,
And the conversation needs more details.

Springing up and grabbed without a breathe.
The center is slathered from the already awaiting container.
The bread constricts in volumn,
But the laughs from the phone echo through.

Soft puffy white,
With hints of charring lines,
Cut at a diagnal.
Perfect, in chomping my mouth to that first monster bite without crust.

Awake and ready.
I never had to worry.
And my mother doesn't know,
That i understand her love and effort.

As her morning ritual,
Will always be my favorite toast.