The loaf

so you can tell it's been a productive night at work...

The Loaf

There's a loaf of bread sitting on the back seat of my car.
It's been there since I stopped at the servo
10 hours ago to pay an inflated price for petrol
I should've bought days ago but
didn't because the guage went unnoticed
until it hit the red mark of desperation.

What does it mean that The Loaf is still
there filling its plastic burrow
with condensation, sweating like
it's a living organism because it is,
what with all that yeast to make it rise?

All that yeast, spreading like Jesus
said it would.

The Loaf (his body) still sits on
the back seat of my car. I can say
this because it's Good Friday - or it was two hours ago -
and I'm at work, doing a night shift at the
radio station - away from The Loaf -
sweating in my own way; a living organism
trapped in an office devoid of people,
populated by screens playing
the end of Ben Hur to no one.

The Loaf it sits, away from the wine.

I sit, away from The Loaf, away from the wine.

The Loaf, it sits.