there is no help for it, no way around it.
The alarm at five, the mask unhooked
after the compressor is turned off. On to the
days proceedings, a shower for refreshment,
the teeth cleaned, brushed. Nothing is perfect.
Leave the house, almost still asleep, walk down the alley of colourful german houses, all aged, some converted inside, very few any more than replicas of their early selves. Barely at the main street, three minutes under way, realise that the telephone has been left at home, there in the electric cradle, recharging,
Turn return home, meet the cat on the stairway. Pick up the phone. remove the connecting wire, pocket. it. And then back to the alley, the main street, hurry along past all of the bakery trucks unloading. Bus stop, there is Dolores, there is the bog cotton man, hair short, waiting, His hair is cut now, it is no longer waving like the boy cotton does up in Dublin Mountains. The bus driver, unhappy to recieve a note, he prefers exact charge. That is put the way things are
Easy money on some days, more work on others.
At the railway station the man with the big bakery truck has blocked the entrance almost completely with his loading and unloading activities. It is all for the tiny bakery in the railway station's hallway. Hard to believe. He is a large self-important man, full of his own perception of the importance of his work, and deriving a delusional right to hinder other people from this wichtigtuerei, ruthless in the execution of his job. Say a good morning to the pigtailed smokers´, and squeeze past at the stacks of boxes, and containers, and what- have you all -
the small bakery is chaotic, as always .Four people, all discussing how to do the job, cartons of frozen bakery produce, all to be warmed up in a hot air over during the day, for sale as freshly baked bread.
Take the cup of coffee to the deserted platform, and watch this fill up, in expectation of the punctual train.
Leave the house, almost still asleep, walk down the alley of colourful german houses, all aged, some converted inside, very few any more than replicas of their early selves. Barely at the main street, three minutes under way, realise that the telephone has been left at home, there in the electric cradle, recharging,
Turn return home, meet the cat on the stairway. Pick up the phone. remove the connecting wire, pocket. it. And then back to the alley, the main street, hurry along past all of the bakery trucks unloading. Bus stop, there is Dolores, there is the bog cotton man, hair short, waiting, His hair is cut now, it is no longer waving like the boy cotton does up in Dublin Mountains. The bus driver, unhappy to recieve a note, he prefers exact charge. That is put the way things are
Easy money on some days, more work on others.
At the railway station the man with the big bakery truck has blocked the entrance almost completely with his loading and unloading activities. It is all for the tiny bakery in the railway station's hallway. Hard to believe. He is a large self-important man, full of his own perception of the importance of his work, and deriving a delusional right to hinder other people from this wichtigtuerei, ruthless in the execution of his job. Say a good morning to the pigtailed smokers´, and squeeze past at the stacks of boxes, and containers, and what- have you all -
the small bakery is chaotic, as always .Four people, all discussing how to do the job, cartons of frozen bakery produce, all to be warmed up in a hot air over during the day, for sale as freshly baked bread.
Take the cup of coffee to the deserted platform, and watch this fill up, in expectation of the punctual train.
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