making progress

The pan is dirty; stained and caked
in month old leftovers, the stench
recalling the stomach-aches and unsatiable
hunger. Before I can start, I scrub with Joy
lathered on a sponge that soaks and sucks it up,
never stopping to mind broken nails or bloody fingers
until everything is empty- clean.

Somewhere, there is a recipe, handwritten and hidden
in my mother's cookbook. Instead of searching,
I assemble my own ingredients. Flour, for thickness
(thick skin), durability. Bananas to take the ache
away, sugar so it's easy to swallow, yeast for rising
above you. One cup of chocolate chips
just because.

For ever, I watch it rise,
sitting in front of the oven,
chin in my hands, elbows on my knees.
End result- lopsided, with dents
and holes. But it smells like heaven.

Someday, I will get it just right
served on the good china
to even my greatest skeptics,
and their hushed criticism, murmurs
involving supected use of nutrisweet
will melt in their mouths.

This first loaf, though, is all for me
to eat alone on a warm front porch
straight from the hot pan, while staring
too hard into the sun- an over dose
of light, and daily bread.

-------------------------
Er. yeah. I haven't written a poem in months and this is rather awful, and I suspect it is even more awful to those of you who are constantly surrounded by amazing writing. I'm not sure I like it at all, though it seemed like a good idea at the time, and I'm also not sure that it will make sense to anyone who isn't me. But that's the point of workshop, right? take something awful and tear it up in the search for a shred of potential?

Right?

Help me.

Love,
Caroline