4 o’clock in the bakery

hot hands sing. flour dusts itself from benches.
makers of bread unbutton themselves to dough.
it was 4 o'clock. 4 hours to go and she'd be home
home, to her snoring husband, hungry children, dog
that'd need walking. she wiped the table down, sighed
& wondered, as she hummed her favourite tune that was
playing on the tinny radio, if there'd be any leftovers
to take home. then i look at you and the world's
alright with me! she sang low, so as not to bug the boss
who was ok as bosses go and she wished he would.
as always, she’d carry the smell of yeast home on her clothes.
as always, bits of dough’d cling to her overall and hair.

her hot forehead pressed against the cool, metal door
before she stepped outside for a breath of air and a smoke.

© 2008 Geraldine Green/UK