Cold buttered toast

I had missed out on breakfast this morning,
And I’m not of the type to do brunch,
With my nose firmly glued to the keyboard
I completely forgot about lunch.

Now by mid-afternoon I was hungry
And so, with the small dog in tow,
I wandered off into the kitchen
To see where my fancy would go.

It’s a bit of a bugger, I’m thinking,
As the cupboards all look a bit bare
And the fridge, though lit up and inviting,
Just looks back with its own vacant stare.

Never mind, there is cheese and the toaster
And that’ll do nicely, says I,
But the cheese-hound has got there before me,
And stares back with an innocent eye…

There are eggs, and perhaps I could poach them?
That is, if they’re fit for the toast;
They could have been lurking a while there
And be ready to give up the ghost.

I’m starving by this time, you’ll gather,
The toast’s going cold and won’t wait;
So the microwave might be the answer
To get the damned things on the plate.

The moral to this little story,
And there has to be one, as you know,
Is to never put eggs in the zapper…
You’ll be wearing your dinner ‘to go’.

I’d remembered their dangerous habit
And pin-pricked them, thinking them fine,
But no… they exploded regardless
With the force of an organic mine.

Poor Ani dove under the cushions,
With her nose peeking out in dismay,
And the oven’s been redecorated
With egg applied as a fine spray.

I’d forgotten, of course, till it happened
That the eggs would continue to cook,
They exploded again as I grabbed them,
And powdered egg’s not a good look….

It sticks in your hair and your sweater,
And clings like the sea to the coast;
So I had a shower for dinner
And two bits of cold buttered toast.