The Prose Poem

Russell Edson


     I like good looking bread. Bread that's willing. The kind of bread that's found in dreams of hunger.
     And so it was that I met such a bread. I had knocked on a door (I sometimes do that to keep my knuckles in shape), and a women of huge doughy proportions (she had that unbaked, unkneaded look) appeared holding a rather good-looking loaf of bread.
     I took a bite and the loaf began to cry . . .