Here stands a catapult Emily Dickinson rented to advertise notebook rhymes. She moved upstate, complaining that New York City seemed ugly and talentless, and made artisan breads for additional revenue.

The dough apparatus sent a bit of sourdough out the jettison. Revenue from Dickinson's vocation redeveloped poetry's prospects, but saving poetry allowed crime to become successful. The prattle faction of America swore that poems could be our generation's champagne, but ungrateful New Englanders had a sweet tooth, nothing else. "Lose the verses," they'd click. "Make sandwiches."

The sourdough region approved her company's new application to fashion salad dressings. From there, Dickinson created her almost proverbial and best-loved milled wheat sandwiches. "Thank you," she expressed at the sandwich festival. Thirty-seven dieticians applauded. Poets with leek and potato soup, women gradually losing to their diets, all were hushed and transformed by Dickinson's stripped-down acceptance speech. Fat men who swore poetry was just for the women silenced each other. Dickinson said, "The bread you're eating with those milled-wheat sandwiches comes from a poet who's committing suicide every day."

It was a bunk-bed feeling. A seriousness of billiards proportions hit us. A Dickinson Bakery shutdown meant we'd miss doughnuts, perhaps crullers or giant maple rings. Facing such a consideration, the appeal of poetry receded.