I’ve stood in the ice caves on Mount Rainier, but I’ve spent more time in bakeries. Bakeries are environments too, and next month—I’m not making this up—is National Hot Breakfast Month. So to get us all good and ready for that, here’s a poem:
The Baker’s Story
She thought it might be funny,
and a little bit romantic:
leaving him a trail of muffin tops
to their room.
Her husband was always on the late shift,
and she was always gone before dawn—
warm bread, hot coffee,
butterhorns like sundials…
the life of a baker,
and a good one; no regrets.
But, of course, the dog— she should’ve thought of this—
and threw up.
And if your husband comes home,
and you’re down on the floor ass-naked
mopping up vomit with a beach towel,
then isn’t this also funny, and a lot like love?