11-27-2024, 01:28 PM
PASTIES
The pastry man places in the window the pastries
he’s certain those who stroll by will see,
enticing them to stop in to buy from his delicious melody.
The colorful frostings on the pastry tops
should be enough to make them stop,
and step into the pastry man’s pastry shop.
Once inside the store
he’s sure they’ll buy some pastries and more
before heading back out the door.
But the bell above the door never rings,
the silence in his store, let’s face it, stings,
and he feels the hollowness this rejection brings.
He arrives by the back every morning at four,
hearing the creaking of the uneven floor
as he leaves at ten that evening by the very same door.
In the interim he makes pastries and pies,
he watches as the people go walking by,
and returns a smile and the wink of an eye.
The pastry man ponders his empty store
as he sweeps the flour from the burnished floor
and wonders how he can do any more.
He makes his pastries only to throw them away,
he’s forgotten how many pastries he’s made today,
and frowns even as he plans the next day’s display.
Outside the people smile as they pass,
primping on their way to work or to class,
never knowing what’s behind the mirrored glass.
Never once did the pastry man hear the tinkling bell,
not once did he sell a pastry, and well,
perhaps the poor pastry man should have learned how to spell.
The pastry man places in the window the pastries
he’s certain those who stroll by will see,
enticing them to stop in to buy from his delicious melody.
The colorful frostings on the pastry tops
should be enough to make them stop,
and step into the pastry man’s pastry shop.
Once inside the store
he’s sure they’ll buy some pastries and more
before heading back out the door.
But the bell above the door never rings,
the silence in his store, let’s face it, stings,
and he feels the hollowness this rejection brings.
He arrives by the back every morning at four,
hearing the creaking of the uneven floor
as he leaves at ten that evening by the very same door.
In the interim he makes pastries and pies,
he watches as the people go walking by,
and returns a smile and the wink of an eye.
The pastry man ponders his empty store
as he sweeps the flour from the burnished floor
and wonders how he can do any more.
He makes his pastries only to throw them away,
he’s forgotten how many pastries he’s made today,
and frowns even as he plans the next day’s display.
Outside the people smile as they pass,
primping on their way to work or to class,
never knowing what’s behind the mirrored glass.
Never once did the pastry man hear the tinkling bell,
not once did he sell a pastry, and well,
perhaps the poor pastry man should have learned how to spell.