A pop-up toaster was the thing
you put the slice into the slot
depressed the little knobby thing
and out popped toast, so nice and hot.
But word of toasters got around
in homes and shops a bread revolt
in bakeries throughout the town
loaves named it torture with a jolt.
“We will not take it any more.
We’ll blacken, catch and when you poke
to get us out the bottom door
we’ll burn your hands and bellow smoke!”
Till all the world became intent
on crispy toast that would not shred
and loved the man who did invent
(to pacify both man and bread)
the toaster oven tanning bed.
© 2012 by Violet Nesdoly
Pure silliness, I know. I wrote this poem in 2009, when I was challenging myself to write poems about various objects.
This poem is linked to Poetry Friday, hosted this week by Carol at Carol’s Corner.