troubles de la croissance

Sublime like Pillsbury

Flakey like a croissant:
convenient, fresh, and even a little chewy,
there is no synonym for you.

Exquisite, not quite pristine,
wholesome, simple and almost sublime,
an ebb and flow of my youthful dream.

You disappear and slow your age
in life’s deep freeze
or surprise me,
smiling behind supermarket glass
like Saturday’s frozen custard
between sorrow and anger and next to despair.

At the bistro or the deli
smothered in marmalade, horseradish, beef
or stuffed with a nutty salad of chicken, tuna, Waldorf;
too haughty for some bland yellow mustard.

I’ll never know until your return
on the breeze of a summer day.
Oh, flakey croissant. I can’t take you seriously.

Sometimes we disappoint.