Bread

This is an arm. Hunger for memory and a mind for the road. The pushing and running gets tired and I need bread, and butter, and a couple of new feet. I show myself a sign I don’t understand and go down to the corner for bread. I eat bread at the window and bread looking over the bridge. The impossible depth and smell of the past kicks me. I eat bread to forget but I don’t feel filled. There’s milk, and apricots and coffee, but I just eat bread. The woody smell of it, like fresh nuts just cracked, hits my nose and I tear off another piece. I’m far into the middle of summer and the days getting shorter and bread keeps me familiar. I wake up when I’m not supposed to. I hear birds that sound like morning, only it’s not morning, it’s two hours after midnight. I reach out in the dark for more bread and thank the birds.