If I could wrap blandness up
In a pinstripe suit,
and leave him,
my white bread man-
toasting -
In someone else's kitchen
I would.
Wholesome man,
Soft as country rolls
with the essence
ground from the chaff
Making flour
too weak to bake with
I only wanted to taste,
I didn't know
that taste would stain the loaf so pale
with mild-mannered surprise
and the expectation
that I would stay,
here, in a gingerbread house
that didn't taste sweet.
Where the only cage was guilt.
And so I'm left,
fidgeting the crumbs
of my Hovis man
Between fingers
that still smell faintly like
honey.
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