The Best Bread in the World
(A poem for occupations)
Sometimes I wonder if everything he touches
He kneads a new bust of Caesar
and sells it as pumpernickel.
I've seen his powdered studio reek of
Picasso cubes and Dali madness;
Later he fills them with creams and jellies
Carefully marking a place for their tray
In his six o'clock window display.
"This one was made during my Dadaist period."
He teaches a half-asleep clerk.
"A torte with fur!"
Not rousing even a leavening smile, he retreats,
Believing that genius could never compete with morning,
And attacks the sweet rolls with an icing palette,
Knowing someday he'll write a book