We work at the bakery that makes roles.
Precious roles, roles fist-sized and fluffy
enough to cushion our customers from
the meaningless nothing of everything.
Roles you can make slits in with a butter knife
and fill with butter, or jam, or peanut butter.
Love and hate. Peace and war. Anything.
About as certain as bread on the dinner table.
They entered through the door and left,
ringing the bell, for roles had become routine.
They couldn’t live without them.
Couldn’t get to work without one in their hand.
We worked at the bakery that makes roles
until the day people remembered
that roles are made, not given or born.
And they stormed the bakery.
There was flour in the streets,
and trails of custard and jam.
I watched a young child mold custard
into a role the shape of a fish.
Questions for reviewers:
1. How do you feel about the ending?
2. Does the form of the poem match the content?
3. Does it feel like something is missing? Or does anything feel unnecessary?