I agree.
Poetry
is like bread
and for everyone.
But which bread?
From where?
The boiled bagel?
Soot black pumpernickel?
Salt top ciabatta or
faccia vecchia
with anchovies and
hard cheese?
Pan dulce be it
concha o empanada?
The deservedly smug baguette,
maybe an airy croissant or
eggy brioche doing its bit
and infiltrating the banal
hotdog and hamburger bun?
How about a nice slice
of sourdough made from
tenacity and time?
Surely not the clay-like
white bread from store,
straight from the plates
of grade school PBJs,
whole milk, side of nostalgia.
Naan is king but paratha
gives stiff, flakey, competition.
If I forget thee, focaccia,
forgive me. Hardtack
is slow going, rough on the tooth,
but offers more in return
than injera depending,
as this all does,
on who you ask.
