Breakfast in bed ought to be easiest,
Eating together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people eating crumpets.

Yet more and more time passes hungrily.
Downstairs, the grill's incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses smoke about the sky,

And burnt crumbs heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from eggs and bacon

It becomes still more difficult to form
Toast at once crisp and warm,
Or not uncrisp and not unwarm.

For Owen; with apologies to Philip Larkin.