Starlings in the Bakery

Dusty flutterers, fast breeders,
they keep their nest on a girder
too high for the baker to reach.

Among rows of pulsing ovens,
he bats and swings his broom.
Floorboards flex beneath his boots.

Perhaps the starlings think him
humorous, fat man bouncing,
forever failing to beat them down,

streaks of brown in the yeasty air.
At night they shit and stamp
starred tracks on burlap sacks

of flour and wheat, hop inside
glass cases the baker's wife
forgot to shut and lock, plunder

fresh-baked wedding cakes'
inch-thick icing, sugary rosettes,
steal sweet cream from eclairs

the baker finds next morning
at sunrise, hollowed,
full of light.

Copyright © 2004 Jason Roush All rights reserved
from Cimarron Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission