Hot, Cross Buns

the grindstone

crushes many grains,

call it bread

or call it pain,

the milling crowd—

the grist within it,

stones don’t care

if chaffe or millet

–if flowery white

is kneaded from it,

it rolls its load

no heed to crumbs

that break away

from bread then baked…

like Antoinette

it could be cake…

only bread insists specific

every flower by rights terrific

the bakers lording

choice of mix

like bankers hoarding

golden bricks…

golden loaves

are packed and labeled

to complement a humdrum table

every slice

/ familiar cut /

they never mix banana nut

with sourdough

–although the blend

might suit the diners

in the end.

©Karen Robiscoe