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by Anne Babson

I am baking
Loaf one tonight.
That chrome machine
You shipped me as

A gift for my
Birthday removes
All the mess, and
The smell smells the

Same in my house
As when I used
To knead dough stick-
Ily myself,

Only now, my
Fingers are clean,
And my rings don’t
Need to be scrubbed,

But now my thoughts
Stay unshaped, not
Like when I shoved
Them into flour

And yeast, knocking
Out their bubbles
Until they rose and
I could braid them,

Glaze them, bake them
Up wholesome and
Savory, fresh
Problems hand-solved.


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