By John Short
Back in the pounding factory
I have to spend a night keeping
vigil over unbaked dough:
white shapes pass in squadrons
I look for deformities;
this is not my usual section
so surprised when the team leader
asks me if I want to order
in fish and chips.
By four it’s all too much.
I’ve constructed a solar system
of dough balls along the edge
of the conveyor belt: accurate
distances, remembering
that Mars is smaller than Earth.
