In a queue for artisan bread somebody said, do you believe
in life after loaf and nobody laughed. We just moved on.

In this time of unstable connections and see-saw relations,
we drift unaware, we abide, infringe. For certainty,

for chalk-marked security, look to the tarmac. This cannot be
measured, or metred. We are more than a couple apart,

all self-isolators, homely bakers, lacking in flour. In love,
it is our choice to join the line or leave. As customers

parted, my promises the currency of clowns. I’m the richest man
around, with cash at a cashless counter. Waiting in hope.

In a queue for artisan bread someone ahead told an old joke,

it really wasn’t funny the first time. We just moved on.