Each shocking minute

Every night, in a space he'd make

amongst waking and reason,

my granddad wore his one

suit, in our still dim house, and drove

through Brooklyn's betrayed lanes

following trolley tracks to the bread kitchen.

There he'd change into white

material work garments and top,

furthermore, without ladies,

his hands were both adoring, admirably

into day break and for the duration of the day—

plying, taking off, molding

each shocking minute

of yeasty consistency

in that austere world lit

by somewhat influencing stripped knobs,

where the shadows amazed, woozy

with the fragrant warmth of the work.

At that point, the suit and drive, once more.

At our table, graced by a roll

that steamed when we cut it,

diminished the margarine and raised

the very air we'd relax,

he'd tally us favored.