On Our Floor

My night was great.

Feeling peckish though. I decide

that warm toast and melted butter will be nice.

In goes the cheap bread,

I’m hopeful anyway. perfect setting and it will be just how I like it.

Then I see

Cardboard crust.

It’s lying there on our floor,

Accompanied by yellowing lettuce and

Drying tuna

Sticking to the bowl.

Other islands of meal debris linger on our floor

like puss filled spots

eminent and erupting

over the surface of your face, on our floor.

It was there when I left

And it is there now

This display of rot and decay

Teasing, tormenting, tearing my patience

No milk.

It’s not like my expectations are high.

I will not give in though. Someone has to break first.

It will not be me.  

I’ll flick on the kettle. Chamomile tea is what I need; Tranquility and warmth.

Butter. It’s out already. My butter. The lid is off and across it a knife

Lurks, hour old grease, crumbs clinging on for life

Mold is life.

It’s too much. Flick. Off goes

The kettle, just like the aerated and abandoned scoff.

The toast lays forgotten, to join in the degeneration of

Our floor.