Ensnared

My little crumbs are scattered,
on wax paper, I can feel them rolling,
and taking over.

Overseas, I see them drop
to finished floors,
spreading out like soldiers.

A bell sounds from behind,
I unwrap the oven.
The heat ensnares my hands,
the burn travels down my arm.

The old pan simmers on the cool marble,
and the crumbs are crushed.
A broom rushes out, capturing my crumbs,
and somehow they are forgotten.

At the base of a dirty weed, they lie,
slowly sinking into the dirt, waiting
to be remembered.