My mind wanders
While I do mundane tasks
But it seems to follow a method
And results in burnt sandwiches
When I prepare lunch at 12:45
I operate through routine
If the butter is outside the fridge
I think about my parents
I like soft butter
When I open the fridge
I think about Russia
I find the ingredients I like
And take them to the centre of the kitchen
There is a counter, on what my parents
Always call an island
I am reliably surprised
At the number of slices of bread left
I like the two endmost slices
They make drier sandwiches
I usually struggle to butter the bread
While struggling I think about mail order brides
And often while slicing tomatoes
I think about lonely men;
Gauche, or shy, or lazy
And cutting pieces of cheese
I think about poor women
Often forced by circumstance, or violence
And as the bread toasts
Between hot plates
I think about fake intimacy
And how love can be a function
Of the conscious mind
I always burn my sandwiches
But I prefer them burnt