and you can smell the yeast
and they’re almost too hot to handle as you pry them open with your fingertips
and the crust is crunchy but yielding
and the centers are soft and stretchy
and as a bonus ….
you notice that the pats of butter in the little bowl are already soft and spreadable.
When you climb the steps out of a subway station
in a city you’ve never been to before
and as you emerge onto a sidewalk where lots of people are bustling by
you notice, as you stand in one spot,
within 300 feet
a coffee shop with frosted cinnamon rolls in the window
and a funky thrift shop with a crooked mannequin dressed as a lumberjack
and an interesting bar with sawdust on the floor and pickled eggs
and you have all day to explore.
When you hear a saxophone playing a husky lusty tune
with just a slow subtle organ as accompaniment
and the notes are so deep and mournful that
as you sit there
you want to close your eyes
and give in to the sensation of floating and melancholy
but then
as you sag into the song
the notes trill up, teasing, awakening you
bringing a tight smile to your lips
and a feeling of surprise and release.
When you’ve traveled many hours
and the map says your destination is just a few miles ahead
and the road breaks through a gap in the hills
into a small town that still has a five and dime store
and an ice cream stand where the window slides to one side as you stand outside to order
and an old hardware store with wheelbarrows parked out front on the wooden porch
and a little café called The Blue Bonnet
each store on a steep main street
and as you pass on through the town you think to yourself
“We’ll have to come back here this afternoon once we get settled in”.
When your drink is brought out
in a stout tapered glass
that was snatched from the freezer immediately before your lager was poured
and you see ice sliding down the outside of the glass
and little bubbles rising through a sea of amber
and a thin head of foam that you know
will leave a little moustache on you
as you take that first almost-shudder-inducing sip.
When you’re sitting on the beach in one of those little lean-back half-lounges
and the sun has sunk below the horizon
but the sky is still inky light
palm fronds rustling above you in the warm night breeze
and you have drinks and are sharing a hot veggie sub with melted cheddar on it
and gulls are wheeling overhead, squawking that they want some too
and the waves are tumbling over themselves and hissing as they futilely rush to reach you
after they crash onto the flat sandy expanse that spreads just beyond your feet