Polly

Writings and Witterings

Toast

25 Comments

burnt toast
Scraping black toast into the sink,
Teen hears Mum say,
‘Just do another slice. Another slice.’
But no, scrape the acrid burnt bits into
The sink. Dad will clean the toast dust, bitter
Choking toast dust sticks to
Sink sides clinging onto
The cloth Mum hates to clear away. She says,
‘Just do another slice. Another slice.’

Polly Robinson © 2012

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25 thoughts on “Toast

  1. I hate burnt toast too! Yuck! It’s kinda cool to write about it though :)

  2. OH motherhood is SOOOOOOOO redundant some times. My thing with my daughter was holding her bottle. I don’t know what the one thing is that’s soul stripping for my son yet!!! He’s still to little to judge. But when you hear that little voice or see those little fingers being scrubbed clean in a warm towel make it ALL worth while! Beautiful poem!!!

  3. The mess you can make doing that with toast! It’s criminal

  4. I love burnt toast in a poem – it evokes so many domestic images. Nice repetition too – feels like drudgery….

  5. I love this one–my mom never threw away a bit of burnt bread. Scrape, scrape, scrape…

  6. You’ve suggested the tension bouncing between the three so well, Polly. Very effective! My only regret? I wanted a bit more!

  7. i can almost feel the stickiness of these crumbs. secret: i love the smell of burnt toast. another non-so-secret: I would never bite into it. At the blackened stage, it makes for a way better poem than anything else. :)

  8. Yuk scraped toast! Evokes a strong reaction from me! I like my toast white, warm, and wafted past the toaster :)

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