PROSE POEM ON THE BAKERS (NO COMMAS) I always see the bakers when I am in a hurry walking past the door on the alley where they take their break. In any reasonably toler- able weather they sit outside the door on crates or squatting on their heels. Many of them smoke during their break because they can't do that inside. I don't think they talk a lot and they sel- dom make eye contact with people like me walking past. For some reason this makes me more aware of my stride and I can feel it in a way that makes me grateful to the bakers. They work in a yuppie place that is chaotic and expensive (a microcosm of our late twen- tieth century world) where the customers always seem intent on their transactions rather than on any personal grief or joy. I join this atmosphere with enthusiasm since this is now our way of having a common experience. Experiencing something in common with other citizens is sacred or at least has always been thought so. The bakers in their white t shirts white aprons and small white caps seem to be (or I would like to see them as) messengers from another realm of existence whose message is simply their presence in our world. Hence their silence. As I walk past them silently my legs in their regular pace say to me "I get the message I get the message I get the message."