It’s dough time, which has risen
At the thought of explaining the world.
Maybe we can pound it down?
It will just rise again,
As is the nature of dough,
Of which we’re made.
The snow outside the stray flour
That spilled over the table
We all live under –
Even our anguish and dread
Are simply the thoughts of baker up early
From his wife’s spooning back,
Their little muffins in the kitchen
Wide-eyed and silently facing the day.
And what a day it’s shaped
Up to be: a lot to leaven
From just stale flour and fat,
The mysterious smudges on the recipe.
His pleated hat keeps falling
Over his eyes as he cuts us out,
Bakes the steam off our heads.
It is indeed early, but customers
Are lining up on the long sidewalk,
Their glum mouths already open.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment