On my way to buy a morning paper #72

Sixteen pristine, two-thirds finished dog-ends

on the path beside the railings round the pub

from which I straightaway concoct

a late-night, muttered, intense and distressed conversation.

Loaves not fishes

Late-woken from a dream re-formed

from the dough of Thursday’s memories

to red dot flashing of bread machine

and a butter yellow sky.