-squeeze me. I’m Italian-

prelude:

I was young, but old enough

to cross the street on my own,

when I’d be sent walking with cash in hand

to Marzilli’s Bakery for two "Italian" breads.

the path went this way:

leave the house crossing Bedford at Whitey’s Esso Station,

pivot left, crossing Stinziano and walk the length

of Columbus Park

from the right field corner, passing the infield

from first base to home plate to the backstop

and the water "bubbler" behind the backstop at Bedford and Wall.

landmark!

cross Wall street at the bubbler, a direct shot

to Marzilli’s door and step into paradise.

the oblong beauties were escorted from three, large brick ovens
carried on wide wooden peels with long handles

coated from the flour sprinkled from Marzilli’s hands, Maestro! and shoveled onto
waiting wire shelves where they'd rest, cooling their young, hot temperament.

when cooled enough to carry, they’d be bagged in paper,

always one loaf per bag, the fat, rounded noses
of the pane exposed as if testing the open air for the first time.

I’d follow my tracks back home, cradling the loaves
in my arms as one would carry infant twins,

with the scent of their warmth circulating around me.

the incident:

some time before a Bedford crossing on my own was authorized, 
while the family was sitting in the parlor watching television,
I grabbed a fresh loaf from the kitchen counter before supper,
the loaf still warm from the ovens and instinctively began squeezing it,––

gently at first, but enough to crackle the sand-colored crust covering the warm,
moist dough, then increasing thumb pressure with every crackle

'till the crust crumbled in my palms, releasing the sweetness within the loaf's belly.

I found myself incapable of stopping, pressing my thumbs for the want
of its moistness, well beyond the point of no return.

the addiction:

the tactile sensation was overpowering, the crust, like a communion wafer  
at my thumbs, its crumbs falling at my feet, the aroma released
into the kitchen's atmosphere of tomato paste, garlic, olive oil and nicotine.

I squeezed the heaven out of the molten, crackling loaf,

Its oblong shape redefined to sustenance from the gods.
it was a sweet death.

the closing in the kitchen:

(when confronted, deny everything)

"It was like this when I came home!
 Ya gonna get another one?
 I don’t know what happened"!

and then I began to feast upon the softness of the belly of the pane.