She blew at dust and spiderwebs
And flew up to her kitchen.
Steel-wooled the rust
And set upon the stove the odd appliance.
And on each side a slice of bread
With prayer and defiance.
Turned on the gas beneath it
And at the phone yelled-coming!
Her heart beat all a flutter
When the slices needed turning.
She deftly did the job
Without one slice or finger burning.
Oh thank you sir for waiting
Now she went and told the buzzing.
The salesman had hung up
While all that searching had engrossed her.
I don't need you anymore
I mean your micro-oven toaster.
Goodbye and thanks again!
She cried and went to fetch the butter.
And every morning was begun
A game of challenge, chance and fun.
To brown or burn the bread or bun?
She always, usually, mostly won