Grandma’s Bread

Clouds in the sky are not as fluffy

as Grandma Bert’s homemade rolls

when she mixes

the flour

the yeast

the salt

the warm olive oil.

No, the washing machine

does not receive

the attention

of the secondhand bread machine

she found at a yard sale

so many years ago.

Today I am far away,

I can’t pop by Lakeview Drive

to answer a craving

and see the dusted-white apron

hanging on the coat hook

in the bathroom.

No, I only enjoy the

salty

buttery

flakiness

if I happen to dream.

But last night

they were whole wheat.

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