The smell of hot bread

Every drop-off then was the smell
of hot bread from the ovens
behind the factory walls, made grey 
in the mind 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 the symmetry, it’s at Newberry’s
I can be dropped-off, on a weekday,
when there’ll be a fight for parks,
everyone oblivious to the smells
and memories of years ago. 

A memory

your summer dress I remember:
orange, green, a touch of turquoise

was it?

how it clashed so madly
with the dull buildings

dulled by a sky-full
of grey clouds

pressing inappropriately
around you

and your smile—dashed off
as you ran past in the light rain

bright as the sound
tyres make
on a smooth wet road.