why, she wonders, as the aroma of rising bread
fills her nostril, does she still go to work, to sit
in the stale cubicle air, staring somewhat vacantly
at work she had done, but not finished, because,
after all, she's hardly there anymore, it's
impossible to remember the threads, like
the disconnected, but growing masses of grey
hair on her head.
she wonders at all this,
this morning as she watches the
chickadees careening wildly towards the suet feeder
as she sips lukewarm coffee
do baguettes make a life?
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