poems by tom miller

sitting on bread or i'm on a roll

all that’s left

is a cold egg

and a cup of flour

 

i have often tried

to make bread

and produced

flat failure

 

now, poor,

hungry,

 

i mix a cup

of flour, the

egg, half a cup

of water

 

bake at 375

as my lover

storms away

screaming

about how

i have wasted

food again

 

and i think

to myself

if it tastes

like a brick

i will eat it

anyway

 

and remember

the time

i have wasted

 

trying to bake

this failed relationship