Fresh Bread Poem by Shirley Waugh

Saturday was a perfect day,
To make a loaf of bread.
Never did I imagine,
I was going over my head.
The yeast was added,
To the flour mix with flare,
A cheesecloth placed all over,
It didn't dare have cold air.
The loaf was placed in the oven.
It baked a wood-tan brown.
At dinner everyone salivated,
The most wonderful smell around.
The knife began at the crust,
Then quickly bent in half.
Those seated at the table,
Broke into a hearty laugh.
Into the trash this loaf went,
To continue life at the fill.
I often wonder if it is,
Intact out there still?