Mark Morris Poet Prose Poetry

Panera 2

In the bread house, I see, and hear
families break bread together. 
A knee-high son, sits under the 
mother's armpit; dad sits across 
from her. The baby sits in a 
high chair, seemingly the only 
one aware that he's the head of 
the table. He pounds his fist, when 
the morsels don't come fast enough
from his mom's fingers, to his mouth. 
The knee-high son is so happy,
he sings indiscernible words
of a song he either learned in 
daycare, or from some bizarre, thing
on television. Dad sometimes 
helps calm the baby down: sometimes. 
The mom is content. She eats. She 
consoles. She feeds. She eats. She is 
their moon; she keeps a fixed orbit.

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