Every drop-off then was the smell
of hot bread from the ovens
behind the factory walls, made grey
in the memory by it always being wet
and dark, head-lights on.

When I drive past the road today
the smell of fresh baked bread
still breaks out of those same walls,
now Newberry’s Funeral Home,
where the ovens are hotter and sealed tight.

For no more than the symmetry,
it’s at Newberry’s I can be dropped-off
on a weekday, when there’ll be a fight
for parks, and everyone oblivious
to scented scenes of my young days.