clean plates and burdened bellies

guts heavy with the denseness of bread. baked two days ago in the blaze of afternoon. even now i wonder why i am eating it. the plan was to have something fun to do. spicy and seasonal and scrumptiously appreciated. alas, the two loaves sit alone on the counter. holes in their centers, pierced and prodded, picked at and gobbled by only yours truly. standing up and on my way out. or hours like now. when it's late and the house is heavy with the denseness of dark. i can't even commit to liking them or not. the taste isn't as savory as imagined, but the eating action just.. .happens. i made them, so i ate them. and is such the stuff of life?

we don't waste here in jacobs' house.