the little chunks of

over-toasted bread in my salad

are unattainable.

you can't spear them with a fork,

can't scoop them gently with a spoon.

spread so thin among the crip

iceberg lettuce and the juicy

cherry tomatoes.

spruced up with a little

grilled chicken and cheddar cheese,

you don't look half bad.

you even seem like a great idea

'til i realize:

you're more of a glorified

salt lick than anything.

fucking croutons, with their

khaki shorts and

buffalo plaid flannels!

you act so tough, so hard to crack,

but with a drop of dressing you are

soggy and just plain awful.

so massively unappealing, and yet?

we're all in love with these little

carby bastards.

 

you, you are the croutons in

my salad.

you are the one i've been trying to

catch without success.