Bread hunt

I know I want to hand you
A silver platter
with delicacies

With delicate arms.

The platter is lost, somehow.
I could have sworn I paced in the cubbard
Oh right, right behind all your things.
I can't dig through memories to hand
another thing to you.

I can't riffle through my 'things'
to organize yours.
I can-
I won't.

The delicacies are lost on your pallet

You couldn't smell the roses if I had you in a room of coffee beans
for a thousand years
and handed you the first flower of spring
You would smell a bread factory instead.

Your sustenance would always come before beauty.