the baker

the man spends his night
at the wide wooden table
making bread.

folding over the dough
into flour.

the sugars go in, butter,
salt, whatever it takes
for things to rise,

he bends to the power
of his hands,
against the white board.

the dust of baking is in his
eyebrows, his nose,
it clouds his hair.

his mind though is elsewhere
as he thinks
about love,
about his children, what
tomorrow might bring,

he wonders about his
life, should there be more
than this.

he slips
into the ovens what he has
molded . onto the hot shelves
where each loaf
hardens and softens
at the same time.

at the end of the night,
he sits.
he stares at the bread ready
for the morning,

when the bell rings
and the patrons come to stare
at glass cases,
at his work, pointing,

but he'll gone by then,
home,
dreaming of how he did
not one thing, but many,
many good things.

feeling at times that
life is more
than fair.