In the morning, when I hear water run, I no longer look for you
in the kitchen. I place the toast on the table
in front of an empty chair. Later, I remove
the empty plate. I hear the door close and tell myself
it’s the neighbor’s door. Crumbs pattern the plate
like footsteps in snow. Hoping to see birds, I toss the crumbs
out the window. When the crumbs are gone,
there will be no way to know whether it was birds that ate them.