Carding

A rainbow spread of

Serial transgression

The cheery yellow flag of

Minor sins:

The blade that won’t

Hold weight

The cord unblessed by armorer, the

The hand carelessly strayed into

Forbidden ground

Absconding from the strip

Without a pass

Silken locks burst loose and

Tumbling down the back

The rosy blush of shame for

Greater gaffes:

Grasping at the blade as it collides with hand

Faking cramps

Lurking in anonymity, lamé conspicuously

Blank

Innocently shutting down opponent’s march by

Timing out…the floor

Raking in the dough by advertising Badger Balm

Upon the sleeve (I wish)

Delivering a bell guard to the snoot

(No matter how provoked)

And Blackest Black, Beyond the Pale—the Deepest Dark of Night:

Sneaking a mic into

The mask

Balking at a foe too loathsome to

Endure

Throwing the game

Withholding courtesy

Trying to cause harm

The system generously grants penance to

Bystanders needing grace as well:

Continued catcalls,

Obstreperous support or

(Ignoring reprimand)

Repeated hassling of the ref

All these penalties comprise

A winning hand

Tucked into blazer pocket

Ready to deploy

Elevating our authorities above the

Hoi polloi

Nostalgia

Brown bread smells like loam, like

Beer

Like garden mulch

Pumpernickel’s sour snap

Waits for mustard bite

Rye’s seedy strength, bearing up the

Fatty weight of beef

Dense focaccial spring

Olive-studded

Thick with cheese

Dour Russian black bread begs for

Sweet butter, thinly spread

Radish slices, salt

Supple silken warmth of fresh tortilla

Dunked in guac

Sugared crisp of fruit-nut bread

Thinly sliced in toasted bliss

Even pita’s cardboard mimicry

Flood my recollection with each step

Down the bakery aisle

Past the cornucopian cases

Breathing deep of wheat

Condemned to timid crumble, unsupported loft

I devour the past