It's not that I am angry.
I had laid out my toast,
one piece with raspberry jam,
the other crowned by a pat
of unsalted butter, as always.

But then you called.
Because you had to tell me.
My iced latté sparkled.
Then slowly, as you spoke,
the half moons of frozen water
dissolved, and a diluted,
confused version of my coffee
took its place.

I was barely listening to you,
but I lost my appetite when I heard
the butter melting into the bread,
becoming irreversibly united
and soggy.

After we talked, I turned to the food,
uninterested. You see
it's not that I'm angry, I'm just
not hungry anymore, and
I don't know if I can forgive you
for spoiling my breakfast.