C.W. Bryan Poet Free verse

Making Sandwiches

I wake in the hour of ghosts,
alongside the songs of owls
& swim through la mer d’etoiles
to the bakery

The door rings at my entrance,
flour coats the table like sand. 
Culled fresh les champs de blé
for the bakery

Loaves are rolled then scored thrice
in the plentiful, cinnamon air. 
Ovens hot as le desert de l’amour
at the bakery

Mother’s buy loaves in the hour of dawn,
freshly baked, for children’s lunches
to be eaten at tables d’amitié.
In the bakery,

with flour-soaked hands, my heart
beats sparrowquick at the thought
of my bread enjoyed dans le jardin des enfants
O, blessed to work at the bakery.

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