Sacramento: new
French bakery, opened
In old neighborhood, these
houses built
Post-World War II and
christened
Then, God knows why,
Garden of
The Gods. Wary
residents push
Through the
scroll-etched door. Some
On walkers, some with
children, stand
Before the bright
glass case. In pride
Of place, like some
pink massive
Oreo: giant
rose-cream macaron, one
Candied rose petal,
its crown.
Below, a row of
religeuse robed
In cacao, at their
feet the sunny shells
Of madeleines, strewn
from the shore
Of Floating Islands’
billowed froth.
The petite clerk, not
French but
Greek, tries with her
customer
A joke, something
with Makaron
Nesoi and Iles
Flottantes. With
Blank smile he
requests the last
St. Honore, its dark
glazed dome
Tipped with gold
flake. The room is
Airy, black-white
tiles dusted by
Flour, one forbidden
glassed-in
Chamber lined with
spoons: deep silver
Basin where the
liquid chocolate
Churns, with scarlet
button on the wall:
“Emergency.” What
kind? Patient
In line, each
customer tries out
A treat, pink box
then driven home
Through old familiar
streets. There,
The bonsai tree
shaped like a Z. On
Past, the yard
bristling with 30-foot
Bamboo, scorned when planted,
now
Of no note. Next door,
that hoop for
Basketball goes
unreported, though it
Hangs over the curb. Further
down, that
Man’s house whose son
died of
Drugs—wild boy—their yard
since
Remaining dry and
brown. No one
Complains. Across, a
patch of dazzling
Green: renters, a
young pair of alien
Tongue, who mow,
edge, root out
Weedlings with some
foreign fork, and
Halloweens hand out
strange pastries
Dads tossed out, until
the year moms
Probed their layers,
ruled them safe.
Half that brick
duplex: black Iraq vet
With one arm, who
lets kids see his
Medals, but won’t
talk. None too
Fond of his gay
neighbors, anyhow
The three join forces
on the Fourth, to
Grouse about the
homes that don’t fly
Flags. That corner
house, known for
Its morning glories tumbling
down
The fence, a woman
owns. Her
Garden hose can
reach, but barely,
Thumb for spray, the
scrawny
Rosebush in the yard
that dad
Leaves dead. It
blooms blood-red.
Some moonlit nights,
she thinks
He steals out for a
glance:
Buds straggling,
thin, not like
The hothouse buds
raised for
The macaron. No,
these are
Real. Why risk—in
this
Neighborhood with
cars on
Blocks—a start-up
French
Patisserie? What
Are the odds? Yet
It’s the Garden of
the Gods.
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