[Poem] The Baker

The Baker

The baker rose at 3 AM
To make the dough
To shape the loaves
To bake the bread the strangers break
To break a fast and face a face
To walk along the lightened streets
The baker walks at 3:15
Between the grasses dewy wet
And with the gravel underfeet.

But now it is the night before,
And those around who do not sleep,
They get about their busy things–
Some dress and bathe for early jobs
Or drink their coffee in the dim,
Some stare at screens or ceiling beams
Or count the pebble shadow drops
Along the stucco of the walls,

Some walk pups or agéd dogs–

But in most windows as he goes
The baker sees no nightly glow.

Along his walk the things of dark
That flap and hop and hoot and stalk
They pass and give him not a look,
They’ve come to know him day by day.
The bunny sitting up ahead
Is one he’s met and met and met,
It never runs away.

The part of this he likes the least,
This quiet morning walk he has,
Is near the end, just as he rounds
The final block before the doors.
The baker feels the coming sun,
The night before give up its last,
And in some brittle flash of green
A million hopes are dashed to bits.
He fancies that he hears the sound,
It’s something like a plastic crack,
And all the pieces whole enough
To fit together once again,
They’ll salvage for another hope
That may yet see the sun unbroke.

Or so the baker thinks and kneads.