I admire my bread-making friends and I invent my own spells to look after and protect them, I write poems in their honour and, if they move house, I sell my books, throw my clothes in a pile, shove them into bin bags and go with them, to their neighbourhood, to their street and, if I can, to their building, so that they’ll give me bread, bread they’ve made that morning, last night, it doesn’t matter, it’s always fresh, warm even if it’s already cold. Bread. And my pals get me, I don’t freak them out.
