hospitality hops theminto their full-size truckgnawing up the gravel-skinwhittled in the contoursleading up to your front doorriding tornadic opaque cloudsthat appear and then clearlike their dead-lighterflint flicked smiles willwhen they finally set eyes on youwithout a hellothey’ll no-look football spirala tight aluminum clutchof zucchini bread(which b-t-dubs will be the best you’ll ever havebuttery and sweetdark green skinned chunks of squash meatlike a five-star foxfire chefput in both feet)it will still be warm in your handas warm as a Black Baptist church serviceon a rural one-lane roadon a sunday in maywarmer than the way they’ll askexclusively                   your partnerwith icebox eyeswho you church with?their doors will be a slammingand tires’ll be a spinningbefore she can get out the ‘licin formerly catholicand ya’ll be swallowing a gritty black cloudas they blow-coal out of therepeeling out limestone shrapnelat both of your shinsand will never graceyour threshold againbut that bread                   that breadwould have had youjoining any sect                   in secluckily for you, the invitationwas never extended