Pastry verse

 

Behind the glass
in the commuter sun
puff pastry pillows
hold hands in a row,
all buttered up lovely,
spotted with reputation
of icing sugar, spores
that cover some more
thickly than others.
A less trusting one
might suspect, but
why spoil such a day
imagining the baker’s
machinations? Trust
is shorthand that’s filled
in by others until the day
the grubs insist on
bursting out, so
distastefully.

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