crumbs of love

Crumbs of Love.


Cold, dark night ice on the pond, a duck walks on
unsure ice, it’s still dark when my brother starts
baking at four. I’ll have be at his bakery forenoon
and he’ll have a bag of crumbs ready for the ducks
in the park. I will feign disinterest but feel my way
to the sweet flakes, I don’t think, concerning all
the unpaid work I do for my brother, I should feel
guilty for enjoying the intense aroma of freshly
baked Danish pastry. She, who hands me the bag,
is ignorant, yet wise and there is scent of mystery
about her, the word love interrupts my thoughts.
My brother has it off with her on soft bags of flour,
I think their activity is un-elegant and sinful, a pity
really, for her this affair cannot end happily.