ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 3
PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS)
I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door
on the alley where they take their break. In any reasonably toler-
able weather they sit outside the door on crates or squatting on
their heels. Many of them smoke during their break because they
can't do that inside. I don't think they talk a lot and they sel-
dom make eye contact with people like me walking past. For some
reason this makes me more aware of my stride and I can feel it in
a way that makes me grateful to the bakers. They work in a yuppie
place that is chaotic and expensive (a microcosm of our late twen-
tieth century world) where the customers always seem intent on
their transactions rather than on any personal grief or joy. I
join this atmosphere with enthusiasm since this is now our way of
having a common experience. Experiencing something in common with
other citizens is sacred or at least has always been thought so.
The bakers in their white t shirts white aprons and small white
caps seem to be (or I would like to see them as) messengers from
another realm of existence whose message is simply their presence
in our world. Hence their silence. As I walk past them silently
my legs in their regular pace say to me "I get the message I get
the message I get the message."