The Best Bread in the World

 (A poem for occupations)


Sometimes I wonder if everything he touches

becomes flour.

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

Without yeast.