Fresh Breads

My mother bakes fat loaves of bread,

Crusty and plump and brown and nice.

She puts them on a cloth to cool,

And after school she cuts a slice.

The butter trickles in like gold.

Mom sprinkles sugar on it, too—

And pours milk, fresh and sweet and cold—

Then calls, “Let’s have some, just we two.”

We pull the chairs up to the table

And spread our napkins on our knees.

I’m Mrs. Smith; she’s Mrs. Jones.

I ask about the strange disease

Her uncle has, and how she likes

The bitter, icy winter weather.

She says, “He’s better, thanks. It’s

Almost spring.” We have such fun together!