Near Drap, a village high above the bay
of Nice, rosemary and thyme perfume
the hills and in town you can catch
the divine scent of baguettes—
those crusty submarines of bread
baked to a sunny tan and split
on top where the taste pushes up
and spills out. I bet you smell them
walking by the Boul’ Ange bakery
and some days there’s a sign outside
offering a free baguette to anyone
who leaves dignity at the door and
dances across the shop. They put on
upbeat music so it might be hard
to waltz your way to a warm loaf but
a few flashy steps over the tile floor
will do the trick as long as your heart
is in it and your feet are willing. Even
old folks with weak knees can leave
with their daily bread in hand not
having paid a centime. Imagine
it’s Sunday and they have just come
from mass, the litany is lingering
in their thoughts and they are
moved suddenly as they enter that
other sanctuary, the boulangerie,
by words few churchgoers ever hear
as they sit through services planning
what they’re going to have for lunch:
Give us this day our daily dance.