She married a bread artist
because she thought they would never go hungry
and the breakfast would always be beautiful.
But he fed her lines
stolen from Ferlinghetti
which rhymes with spaghetti.
But she never got any.
Just bread
in exotic shapes
(not really knowing where to spread the butter)
she had to dump him
finally
before dinner
so he wouldn’t have to worry about the curve of the buns.
It was so depressing anyway
all those loaves
without the odd fish
not even toast
the gas stove
a costly crumb.                                    

Christine says: "I am a NYC performance poet. I produce and mc a few shows for the Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan, like the NYC College Slam, Love Poetry Hate Racism, and Bowery Kids. I teach poetry, creative writing, and composition at Westchester Community College. And although I'm of eastern European gypsy descent, I can be seen swinging around town with Niall O'Leary's band of wild Irish dancers performing at all the NYC hot spots, including Symphony Space, BB Kings House of Satisfaction, and all the real Irish pubs in NYC."