Some While After Dawn, Toward the End of December

Leftovers of breakfast
on the table.
Crumbs of toast and
liquid chicken
silent in their reprieve 
live for the moment
to see wrinkled
scraps of trees
scattered about the planks,
the stained remnants
of a life of ease.
The crumbs, they listen.
From below,
a murmured scream, in the basement.
Television blares:
Santa is nowhere!
The crumbs,
the crumbs know
and they lament when
their maker scrapes them
down the
Lau
nd
ry
ch
u
t
e
.