Scary Fur Toaster

Scary because it was hissing, blowing smoke.

Scary because the fluorescent light streaked it peach.

Furry because he was convinced it was a monster.

Furry because it wanted him to choke.

To chew black, charred crumbs

To hock breakfast as a brittle imposter.

She brought it home in a noisy, blue bag.

Plugged it in next to a bunch of bananas.

He could see it from the chair,

His paws clicking, scooting it towards the cabinet.

She’d ripped open a bread bag.

Toss in two slices without care,

Turning her back on it.

He knew, rubbing his head up against her leg.

But she pushed him away.

His tongue curled the air,

His tail wagging.

His eyes flashed at the scary, fur toaster.

The black, cool coaster

Skating through her lives...

It didn’t care. It buzzed too hot.

It never dared. It never got caught.

Its wire wound willfully up to the window,

Its gleam glowed gleefully in the gloom.

And each ding, sprang, burned bread up to the ceiling.

Each dig dragged druggery up to the drapes.

Each crumb cooling against the catch

Til she came to consume it on the cobblestone commute.

He however, was left alone with it.

He took his walk

By the sliding door, the yard and the stairs.

He took his walk until it drawed him back to it.

The cold orange tile breathing under the pads on his feet,

The sun sliding through slots and slits

Of sideways blinds.

Until one by one, the cabinets swung open,

One by one the door slammed shut.

One by one the oranges jumped off the counter,

One by one the plates shattered;

This he defended.

He growled, gnashed his teeth.

Howled and let the hate seethe.

It swung, corner by corner until he cowered underneath it.

It hovered, yanked its cord out of the plug.

A blue spark cascading down

The pool of milk coasting across the floor.

If it had a mouth, it would smile.

If it had a laugh, It would have already done so,

If it were weak it would have fallen to the tile.

There in the draft shooting through the window,

The scary toaster shout out its fur.

It was long, scraping, disturbing the milk.

It was ghostly white and green.

It was clumped, greasy and obscene.

He barred his teeth and hid the squeal in his eyes.

He moved to scratch, hoping for paradise, but as soon as he touched

It a bloom of blue rippled through the kitchenette.

It burgeoned and billowed and blossomed, I’ll bet,

Skating, skittering and scalloping so,

Fill everything and the cabinets glowed,

Till the dishes and oranges were reset

Till the milk was soaked up with sweat and regret

Till the tile glistened and the cat clock listened to its

Tock each time.

As he felt the blue envelop, each strand of hair and

Joint developed into curling up on the woven mat.

The toaster lay neatly on the floor, wires crossed,

Fused – unfused – powerless.

And that was that.