When I bite

I don’t think about

where the melted butter ends

and the gluten begins.

Neither do I nostalgically wander

the fifteen steps from

my adolescent after-school

kitchen to the sunporch

to watch Gilligan’s Island.

Now, I weigh the effort

of slicing a banana

and placing disks,

like Tic-Tac-Toeish symmetry,

against the simple slather of Jif.

No, now as I see toast disappearing,

and my breath taking

an unsociable turn.

Coffee and peanut butter

don’t add up to minty fresh.

Now, I white-glove my hands

in search for creamy blotches.

Jumpers, like Olympian slugs,

hide from my observation

and sensitivity only to be spoken to later…

“You’ve got peanut butter on your fingernail.”