I have always held that the important things
In this ninety years depended on
The trapping of time, eddies behind rocks
Where slow circles wound in contrast
To the dead brown leaves, rushing past
The smell of the baker's early morning work
Drifted and lingered in eddies in the wind
A restless transient stretched and groaned
His young neck and back stiff.
The trees rustled above him and he
Looked up through them at the patches
Of sky, just beginning to get light.
He began to sing, almost inaudibly
When the wind shifted more dry leaves
Picked up and difted into the stream
He took his bedroll and walked along the
stream in the city park and five minutes
later, he got to bakery in time for the baker
to give him a warm loaf before the
manager came to turn on the espresso
machine in preparation for the morning
throng of businesspeople.
The baker made some comment as he turned
the sign to "open" about
The Baker and the transient
And the passing of time
He hesitated in the open doorway,
Adjusted his apron and went back to work




another poem

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