THE
HOSTESS
by
Leland Jamieson
A
loaf of golden
fresh-baked bread
steaming aromas
of rich grains,
sliced lengthwise,
crust just slightly
spread,
drenched deep
with garlic butter’s
strains . . .
.
His
mouth was watering
so, it seemed
he’d swallowed
bucketfuls of
spit
just looking on
— as though
he dreamed —
impatient for
a place to sit.
The
hostess came and
called to him,
“How many,
sir?”
“Just one,”
he said.
She poured iced
water to the brim.
He thanked her.
She brought out
the bread.
He
broke the loaf
with gratitude
—
for her, and for
this age-old food.
©
2008 by Leland
Jamieson
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