Bake Shop

The bake shop has on display, a clutch
Of birds and fondant flowers.
Pastries puffed with Japanese apricots,
Their skins having risen in flakes, browned
In the oven. And pies with chests
Of crisscross ribbons, finger-like
Strips of dough over compote puddles
Of jam, syrup and blueberry beads.

There are Danishes, too, and muffins, filled

With perfect cubes of Honeycrisp apples,
Lobes of walnuts, powdered logs of cinnamon,
Stacked hastily like a pile of books, or bricks
Haphazardly arranged.

I notice on the wall, a clock, hanging

Inside a cage of Norwegian oak –
Its arms tangled North to the tip of midnight,
Its bony knee paused, at the end of a swing.  
And underneath it, a lady, her hair in a bun,
Slapping dollops of butter-cream
Onto the belly of a cake, smoothening it,
Over and over, with a blunt knife’s teeth,
Falling in and out of smiles, gossiping –
Her hands, once careful, now unmeasured, automatic
Like old, familiar creatures of habit.