Tuesday, February 9th, 2010

Black Smoke of St. Peter’s Square

James D. Autio

Sunday with sharp serrated in hand,
I saw a piece of loaf, wide, but just so,
with only the slight press and shimmy,
I’d coax it into toaster slot.
God knows it likely won’t return from down there,
but that’s an issue to its own time.
I’ve managed to squish it in,
red glow working its voodoo,
and now I’ve only to wait.
Against my counter.
Yesterday’s fruits from the loom.
Some empty longing leftover from a dream.
I just might stigmata my hand,
but no.
Mug of steaming black scorches
as upper lip dips over edge, drawing more air than Folgers.
Christ, the neighbors can probably see me
perched here overflowing my briefsband, but
it’s my house anyway,
curtains, underpants.
I could peel an orange
but it seems too much effort.
Toast, where are you?
For the love of God, come out of there.
It’s beginning to look like we can’t even choose a pope.


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