On Making Bread.

Like this, your words go in and out-
flop them like a doppleganger.
Shadows move across the room because
the sun is slowly moving overhead.
I wonder about astronauts, and if they've
ever made it to the sun-the sun is a great big
iron, you said.  I don't believe it.  Something
is happening in outside space, you said.
I don't believe it, how could I, all I see is
this stupid kitchen, with the stupid tables
and chairs, and the bathtub against the far wall.
It smells like bread baking.  Everything is
changing, you said.  I agree with you on that,
but how can we change it, when we can't even
change ourselves, and the light outside is slowly
dwindling towards the Arctic Circle, and dogs
are barking happily because their masters have
come home from work, and then they enter through
the door, put down their coat, and go into
the kitchen to make some bread.
This is the rest of our lives, one loaf at a time.