Tuesday, May 18, 2010

[Baking and politicking]

While the bread dough inflates,
we sit on the couch, and you say
The writing is on the wall.

What do you see written? I ask.
You answer: Collapse.

We speak of wires tapped,
homes invaded, citizens dragged
off to concentration camps,

The smell of yeast drifts
to our nostrils. We lick our lips--
lips from which

words of war, rebellion, disaster

How swiftly present scent
replaces future-sense,
so that all that can matter
is bread, butter, laughter.

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