Removing the last slice of bread from the wrapper,
I think of laying waste,
the throw-away world we toss each day,
or, out of guilt and the instinct to survive,
we sometimes save.
The logo printed wrapper, the loaf enshrouding sleeve,
would, I brilliantly surmise, make an excellent container
to collect my dog’s leavings from her carnivorous behind,
a different kind of hard baked dough.
And from the trail of smells I follow with my dog,
I discover others active in the lazy kind of loaf,
canine handlers not taking the trouble to clean
the alimentary droppings required to keep a dog alive.
The life-world lasts on the messes that we make,
we use things up, and then they weigh us down.
Exhaust fumes mean we’re moving,
sandwich wrappers mean we’ve eaten,
a casket means we’ve lived.