by Lee Nash
Celestial brunette covered in eyes,
la boulangère flashes a knowing wink;
her regular, unwitting, registers surprise.
No fool, she quickly makes the link:
he's always come in alone before –
every day, and sometimes twice on Sunday.
I fail to notice, already at the door.
Bread, simply, is his order of the day
as rows of plump religieuses watch through glass.
Today he's with a woman. A sighting
of the virgin, this news will travel fast:
I am young. And now I see her smiling,
mocking the old and the stale and our sins,
and cradling two warm loaves like newborn twins.