Yesterday's Bread




On Sunday, we sell
Yesterday's bread at
Just £2 a loaf.
It's soft and sagging
But it will do; pop
It in the oven,
Good as new.

On Sunday, the girls
Look like yesterday's
Party. In they come,
Makeup piled as high,
As buttery and
Sugar-dusted, as
The cinnamon rolls.

In they come, diet
coke in the one hand,
Hangover in the
Other. They dump both
On the side, test the
Mood, can't wait to tell
Of last night: drunken
And lewd. To work, girls!

Coffee grinds, tamps, drips.
Milk pours, steams, froths, pours.
did I tell you when...?
Trays serve, cloths wipe, and
Plates are soaked, washed, dried.
did you hear about...?
The till girl smiles and
Holds her tongue.

Oh, damn this job!
All'd rather
Another
One.

The bread lies
Unchosen:
Past its prime,
Yesterday's
Prize. 
Gone is its
knife-like crust,
Fulsome bust.
Unbought, it's left 
Sprinkled with
not flour but
Dust.

Someone bursts into song.
Someone bitches about
The managers. Someone
Checks their lip liner in
Any shiny surface. 
Someone babbles about
Yet another date and
Which holes had which fingers
In. Tmi, Livi.

There are oat lattes,
matcha lattes,
iced lattes, 
cappucinos no choc
passion fruit cold foam,
orange espressos,
flat whites extra hot.
There's a
one
shot
decaf
popcorn
latte. not frothy.
Just admit it luv,
the barista snaps.
You don't
like coffee.

It's 2pm. One girl
Is in charge, the other
Is on charge. Another
is
out
of
charge.

"Why is the bread £2?"
Because it's yesterday's.
"But I wanted it fresh".
We're not a supermarket.

The young women serve
Mothers milky drinks
who serve their babies
Boobs. Children drink hot
Choc, men drink cold choc
Or mochas. The old
Men monologue, the
Old women moan. Some
Are quite stylish; yet,
No one comments: they
gave up on that long
Ago.

It's 4pm. Time
To close! Feet ache, legs
Ache, backs ache, cheeks ache.
Hearts ache from sheer
Repetition, no
Recognition.
Hopeless as hell.
We, too, by now,
Feel yesterday's:
Too soft to sell.

"Are you open..."
Five pairs of
Raging
Eyes. 
NO.

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