I knead dough

At an unwonted second-hand sale
I bought a kneading trough
Which made everyone laugh
´Cos I couldn’t take it in their gale.

I had it delivered
By one from Baker Street
To my room encumbered
By all my artless cheat.

As I lay lying to a tub made for flour
And drops of salted water
Amongst thoughts needed
I took the bath of the well-bread.

The trough so much needed
Was carved in the plain would
Trampled with strength and heed
By feet of fortitude.

My ravings are bottom thoughts
To be heaved, lifted
And massaged by good hands
And yeasty feet
With a pinch of salt –
A grin or a smile, maybe –
Then laid in the oven of wood
For a better crust –
Then ashes.

©Thierry Kakouridis-Torres

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