"Last year sharks killed nine people globally—a mere driblet compared to defective toasters, which killed 781."
No primordial killing machine
by nature could be this singularly
harmless looking, with neither fins
its long black cord functioning not
so much as a tail—to balance
but as lifeline to the sleekly-built
appliance with its open gills of
jaw, and burnt-crumb breath.
And yet despite these deficiencies,
if statically, in a current strong
enough to carry away an Olympian,
form dictated by function, if not
the fetished mind of Martha Stewart.
plain sight, usually in the cove or bay
of a kitchen, it waits to strike down
the unsuspecting innocent
who, hungry for a pastry or bagel,
by the menialness of the task,
does not notice the frayed cord,
his hand too close to the open slits
or the shiny body of the appliance
anticipating the sweet butter-and-jam
taste in his mouth, the delicious chew
completely oblivious as to what lays
in wait for him, deadlier than any
even if able to make perfect toast.