Sunday, January 10, 2010

Bread Shop

You are
My little shop with no windows
No sun and no time
For things as useless as clocks.
There are fingerprints smeared across your cold case
Placed neatly Windexed in the center
of my little shop with no windows.
People form lines
Fingering your many pastry options.
You are,
Too many options for
Too many of them
To ever make up their minds.
(Just enough, maybe too few, for me.)
The flour floating in here makes you
And, my feet, they can't grip the tiles.
You are,
my little shop with no windows.
No sun, no glimpse of the outer world,
Just existence here, in the tangy air.
You are,
Everything I could've hoped for.
Here where I don't have to think or
Worry about too much air.
I can be me, and you can just
Hold me.
Because I
I sweep up your floors and serve
Well your many customers,
One by one, bagging your little pieces
With a napkin each.
Please clean up your mess when you are
Done consuming.

But they won't use their napkins,
And I'll continue to clean up
Your mess.
And you'll pay me in leftover goodies
I'll hoard in paper bags.
I tell my friends, I love my job
It helps me not think...Though it does take up most of my time and I can't seem to figure out how to say I have to leave soon because this is really just so I can save up enough dough so I can get out of here and find something-

More suiting.

My little shop with no windows.
You'll never learn how much
of a tourist stop you are.
How shiny and new and
Attractive you look from the outside.
Even the flour filled air
Lets everyone know how
sweetly centered you are.
Everyone can smell and taste
The lucious bits
Just underneath
That cold case in the middle.
The cold case
You tell me I'm the only one
Permitted to reach into.

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