Taste of Bread by Steve Klepetar

Paw prints on iron floor,
a sprinkling of grain.
Surely there is some mistake,

a door left open, strange
squeaking in the shed.
Dust moats flutter in hazy

morning sun, traffic
sounds float above the river.
How have I wandered

here from the fields of sleep?
Today I own nothing, hands
empty of water and salt,

tongue filled with pleasure,
grateful at last for the taste of bread.