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
written at 11:37 at night, in bed.