At midnight in the white tiled store
I kneed the dough, my knuckles sore,
I remember the singers of my youth
And pretty Asmir’s sparkling truth;
I drink a beer to pass the time,
And wish it some exotic wine,
I eat fried livers from a cold plate
And wonder at the paths of Fate.
All my friends gone to the Gulf
To steal a pinch of sandy wealth,
The wife of Pathan who lives next door,
Is bored and tries to play the whore;
I say “Sainted Sister, seek someone else,
I set my biscuits on the shelf,
The breads exhale a sweet bouquet,
Pure virgin loaves set on display.