Toast

Not a wink of sleep all night and now I'm up and all I wants is a slice of toast.

The youngster just left for school. Not even the end of October yet and already wearing his winter coat, one dropped mitten still in the porch.

I routes through the cupboard looking for the bottle of Cheez Whiz, remembers that they've changed the recipe and now you got to keep it in the fridge whether you likes it cold or not, elsewise it goes fousty.

Jesus Christ, changing the recipe of Cheez Whiz...

I'm cursing the decision makers at Kraft foods as I digs around the bottom of the jar with a butter knife produces a big shockin' gob of near neon orange covered in a weeks worth of toast crumbs.

The toast isn't poppped yet. I licks the knife clean.

A buddy of mine always makes a point of telling anyone who'll listen how much he hates Cheez Whiz. Now everytime I even sees the bottle I hears his voice:

"That stuff is only two molecules away from plastic sure!"

He'll say that as he sucks back on a cigarette, washes the taste out of his mouth by pouring a gallon of coffee down his guts.

But thats just the way, hey? The world wants to make you feel like a fuckin' jerk for getting any enjoyment out of anything. You can't have a drink cause you'll ruin your liver, can't enjoy a meal or else you'll get fat, this, that, and the other thing are gonna give you cancer, and Cheez Whiz is just a bottle of tasty plastic, you knows.

My father always says "You know when someone dies and everyone says 'Oh my, what a sin, so young and never smoked a day or drank a drop and exercised all the time...'? Well they won't say that about me."

I used to think "Jesus, dad..." But now, now I waits for my slice of white home-made bread (Fuck the multi-grains) to finish burning in the toaster while I eats Cheez Whiz off a knife.

Sandbanks (For Caleb, Haille, Alex and Erin)

Eight feet press tracks into wet sand,
attempt to race
waves that lick salt water tongues
at tiny toes
and the boy’s shoes are already soaked.

Sneakers kicked errantly into
piles of sun-dried seaweed,
the girls are skipping up the beach.

Her blonde hair flies out in disarray,
strands stuck to her mist dampened face.
An overcast day, cold for late June.
Our beautiful Newfoundland summer.

But she doesn’t feel the weather;
only sand
water
the scent of ocean.

The smallest stumbles
over sea worn driftwood.
Runs to catch up
kicking sand backwards in golden arcs.

The oldest stops,
crouches to examine tidal tokens
half buried.
The purple blue of muscle shells,
the spine covered fragility of sea urchins.

Barefooted they wade into waves,
catch breath in their throats
as the cold of sea
prickles warm skin,
drifts over sand to erase footprints.

The boy has kicked off his wet sneakers,
now walks in damp socks that collect sand
as he collects rocks and shells.

They fill jacket pockets,
make pouches of their shirts
to fill with mementos of this experience
to place amongst their child’s treasures at home.