The Early Start

I ask for toast in the morning; when it comes I am asleep. By the time I wake it is cold and I wear myself out as I lift and replace it with feeble action. I wait for the nurse, a few minutes pass and she comes, I ask for some more. More minutes pass. She brings it in and stirs me, she opens my curtains and lays the toast on my lap. I pick up the knife numbly and stare blanky at the abstract of the metal. She leaves me, and, knife poised, I drift away once more, my mind floating to another thought, a timeless place. I catch sight of my gaze in the knife blade, and I stare loose-eyeballed at my reflection, the sight pulls me back into my body. I raise and lower my hand, I dip, carve and spread with the blade, my arm is a glass limb, I operate it with mere thoughts, I clasp my thick, swollen fingers around the rough toast and pull it to my mouth. It is stone cold.