I wish you didn’t have such a weakness for hot bread.
I wish you didn’t crumble at the sight of a fresh baked loaf.
I can almost see you imagining the dough rising:
Its soft flexible back bending in the heat,
till, finally, it hardens,
and in the dark, hot kiln,
becomes a firm little browning.
You are the butter melting o’er its crevices,
slipping nonchalantly into each hot spot,
in hopes of deepening its flavouring.
I wish you didn’t want to pinch a piece;
I wish you didn’t want to dissolve into its folds;
but resolve isn’t palatable in your world.
You prefer the buttery highs,
that peak on the bed of your tongue,
where you can savour the soft texture,
as if it were the elixir of life.
It’s a serious vice,
which mere prayer won’t rectify;
But a wheat shortage might suffice —
halving the offerings to the gluttonous.