How do you like your toast in the morning?

 One of us sang this, to my right, in the trailing silence left by another’s guitar.  He plays Johnny Cash, the soft twangs wash through the room and twist along as they sing.  The one man room is nearly crowded, and they belt along now, their voices must seep through the crack in the door, down a hallway.  I sit as they shout their labyrinth conversation, topics overlapping.  Two of them knit, on the bed and floor, silent.  In my corner I love them slightly, in my quiet way.  

I like my toast with a kiss, is the answer so I’m told.