I Burnt Your Breakfast

On my left thumb, I found a brown scab
Which I picked in class
And remembered
The bacon I burnt.

Now I know I'll never make bacon again
Until it comes smoke-free and always perfect,
Maybe even instant bacon, one step away from plastic.

Yet, my skin kind of looks like
That burnt bacon and I'm not plastic or pig-
All the more of an excuse for me to pick it off
And rub it pensively between
My unburnt and lucky other fingers:
Fresh and pink and fatty flesh.

There under my scab, the skin is new
And I can still smell the smoke in my hair.
The new skin form an eager reminder:

I must be pleasing outside of the male stomach,
And fire alarms have no "off" button.