Some mornings it takes only half
a word and the rotten dough starts
its sticky churn—a squirrel darts
blindly into the street—crows laugh
—bubbles that smell like blistered feet
pop pop pop. The dough grows until
it overflows and spills its fill
from patio to doorbell. Beat
this image down and let it rest.
Don’t blame the tattered recipe,
flour, or salt. In an hour I’ll plea
for sweetness like a man possessed.
I see the mess these thought have brought—
Bread that’s just holes. I’m glad we fought.
other animals 