Bread is in restaurants
only to hold hungryfolks over,
to prevent them from fading away withhunger.
It's compensation for guaranteed slowservice.

A short waiter with gelled hair and a thinmustache
wearing a maroon apron
shoots the bread out ofthe kitchen. He's
like a sprinter off the blocks.It's
warm, fresh bread, crunchy crusts, soft inside.
Ilike to pull the inside out
and roll it into a bread ballof a new texture.

When service is unbearably slow,
Imay go so far as to eat a whole loaf by myself.
Mywell-mannered sister says this is rude.
I don't care.
Iam hungry.

The waiter keeps coming
with water Idon't need.
I hear the ice bouncing around in glasses,then
like rapid fire of torpedoes
the table is barragedwith glasses of water.

I eat more bread, just continueeating
until the basket is empty,
then wait until thewaiter serves up a fresh new basket.

By the time mymeal comes,
sizzling hot and absolutely delicious,
mystomach is packed full with many slices of bread.
I'm fullto capacity. Still, I eat. I eat. Why do I eat?
Not becauseI'm hungry but because my mom makes me eat.
"Kids arestarving in God-knows-where," she says,
and I feelguilty and grateful and stuff my face even more.
All thisbecause of slow service
and delicious bread.