A Baker Swept By
You were already
losing your eyesight
last winter in Rome
when you paused in the doorway
at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning
and a baker swept by
on a shiny bicycle
waving a cap and singing
under his breath,
you didn’t know bakers wore
white aprons dusted with flour
and floated around the city
like angels
on a freshly baked day,
you weren’t sure why
morning halted
up and down the street
as you stood in the doorway
and a baker winged by
on a weekend morning
so new and pristine
that you looked into the sky
and for one undiminished instant
of misplaced time
you saw brightness,
brightness everywhere,
before a shadow crossed
the rooftops
and it was blotted out.
--Edward Hirsch
yesterday I saw this in Hirsch’s book Stranger by Night and wondered where the hell I read that poem before? With a little research I realized it was in the New Yorker in November. I didn’t give it much thought 3 months ago but it popped back into my hands for a reason and now I’m paying attention and bringing it to your attention too. Finally, in conclusion please take a moment to notice cute little bike racks around you and then think about how much easier it is to lock up to a garbage can or a parking meter if parking meters still existed and then take a moment to remember Benson’s Grocery and all the other mom & pops around town that are no longer around.
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