No, my sweet,I would not enjoyany additional breadsticks.I would not likeyour salt and garlic speckleddough cocks.Even for this place,they taste,like all the dusty indistinguishable daysof the rest of your life.And of course there areyour thighsto consider,the way your dingy khaki’sstretch taut across your delta,your belt dipping slightly at that boundarywhich has no namebut is infinitely fascinating,perfectly contoured to the path of a fingeror a tongue.The hardly perceptible curveof your belly caressing the crimson polothat does such disservice to your complexion,which should be plumed in pastels of mint and celeste.Ask me.Ask me how long and far my lips would wander,the places that my hands would findto meddle,to muddle up your heart.Don’t tell me you aren’t tired,weary of wearing that sameold shaggy shift.Don’t try that little lie,as if you never noticedthe people whono longer talk to youabout getting out of this town.Or have you too made pacewith that amaurotic procession?Yielded up that sparkfor a receipt marked:“WISDOM”?I offer a different kind of wisdom.Yes dear,You I would enjoy,but please,Please,Fuck off with the bread.