The waffle irons lay in the garbage
like corpses
like a rich person’s
tantrum
I never thanked them
for all those brunches
punching squares into dough
for syrup to puddle
our last moments together
sweaty and annoyed
impotent machines
old men with no teeth
I picked the waffles out with a fork
shards of crisp
disfigured mounds
syrup falling off them like lava
I poured orange juice
and announced
an expletive coming
like a baby
fuck
I said
and felt better
even though our guests chewed
like they were eating crackers
and I know waffle irons can’t hear
but I regret not toasting
to their long
and devoted life.