Baguette

  
  Do they have them in Canada like Metric like Boxing Day like crappy stores like Zellers like G.I. Joes with their packages in French? Does your brother want one, or know the word for them, or what they are? Does Liz whose heart is at the bottom of the lake want to split one with you, buttered, jammed, or however she would want it? Does your father whose head is in the radio in the air want for elongated bread? You could get one from the deli and bring it up to him like an offering left in a plate for Jesus. You could use the automatic slicer at the deli to chop it into sections like they do an organ from the body when they have to biopsy or vivisect it for science or just because. You could ask the deli man to grind it up like meat to bring it back to life as dough, to put it in a bag, to place it in an urn like ashes. You could scatter it over the earth, or in the snow, or launch it in a hot air balloon into the weather and the electricity, the precipitation and the night. You could consume it hearty with a soup. You could leave it on the doorstep of Mrs. Vivien, the generous tipper on your paper route. You could bury it in a sack below the shed or bronze it like a pair of shoes or like a prize. Taxidermy it up like the skull of a buck or a limp fish on a wooden plate. Send it air mail par avion to Canada where it would be welcomed to the table like a member of a family like a family that functions with a mother and a rock tumbler in the garage where you could polish all your stones.