Bread & Water

I cast my bread on the water, but it didn’t come back. Did you call? I wrote. I made tea from every leaf in the garden. Would you know it if you saw it again? I would. I would know it slowly. I would know it as a failed boat. Wasn’t it full of air pockets, like a lung? No, those were just open dates on a calendar. It was fresh. It had skin for a skin. What will you do when you tire of waiting? I’ll whistle back to the old steam grate. I’ll lick the lenses of my glasses until the street looks clean. What will you do if the bread comes back? I’ll teach it to sink.