Yes, I will take home the meeting bread,
though the conference tablers deemed it
an unfit baguette.
Cluster up the strewn,
the ossified and fluorescent.
Bring slices back to loaf, foiling
along soft curves. You may know
everything of hardship but nothing
of mine. I may give the bread to him
who says yes. For now I revise
its origin story, place it back inside
its custom sleeve and then a sturdy sack.
Bring it home. Carry it on the train,
cross bridges, amber city lights and windows buried
in wisteria. Take it home like
no one’s baby. This colossal hunger
to feed him.