Trashcans in grumpy rows where twilight comes
down canyons of the slums—
devils are dancing there that won't stay hid,
and terror flips its lid.
God of our fathers, art Thou still our Guide?
Then show us where to hide,
untroubled by dashiki, beard or turban;
teach us to be suburban.
Give us, O Lord, whose hearts are underfed,
this day our fluffy bread. . .
I take our shining glory from its niche,
load it, and press the switch:
two slices on an automated coaster
sink down into the toaster
with their white faces and seductive smell
like devils into Hell.