11.28.17

Allow me

to compare my life

to a loaf of bread.

I am uncut, intact,

insulated in my paper sheath

yet stale from neglect and forgotten

likely at the back of some cupboard

with cereal and pasta and expired beans

from an earthquake kit ten decades ago.

I have molded beyond poison, hardened

beyond decay, and only a whisper of

my memory recalls what it was like

to be soft inside.

Also, I have lost all utility as an

object of sustenance. But now you can bash me

into someone’s head and cause lethal

damage.

written at 11:37 at night, in bed.