the baker

the baker
rises before
the sun.
his hands in
the white
silk
sand of flour
and
eggs. sugar
in bags
by the door.
on the long
metal
table, he rolls
the dough for
cookies,
beating the batter
of cakes.
he's an
artist with peaches
and apples.
there is no
smile he can't
bring to a child
with chocolate,
or a woman
wanting cinammon
scones
with her tea.