The old bread knife with its stale teeth can't saw through a sweet roll. Like so much danger to a big brown bear or a bad dream that knows how to punch a hole into your glib, lifeless soul. It was useless at the last five picnics but someone keeps forgetting to sharpen it. This ancient tool is dull and ready for being repurposed: a gray metallic strip, the perfect width for patching the slit in the corner of the compost pile, the entrance/exit for werewolves that get inside at night, the ones who deceivingly wear garlic necklaces like professionals who know exactly what they're doing. They are smart, devious creatures, catching you off guard just when you think you're safe, like an indestructible virus that morphs from one form to another, adapting to new cues in the environment. I ordered a new knife, hand-crafted in Germany in the Black Forest where the big bad wolf with his red breath tricked a little girl into letting him take a peek inside her goodie basket, letting him punch a hole in a beautiful brown bread crust with one mahogony-colored claw, sharper that any one of the teeth on my new knife that costs me and arm & a leg.