The Bakehouse Poem by john (called jack) wren

Good people with baskets no longer stand
To queue each morning with coin in hand,
Or come to the counter when gossip permits
For fresh bread, cake or some tasty bits.

Gone is the smell of fresh baked bread
Its arresting aroma turned many a head,
And neatly placed buns, (so pleasing a sight)
On spotless shelves to the left and right.

Now, from behind, that great oven door
Words come alive, from ceiling to floor,
And poems simmer in a well baked crust
Of feeling, imagination, love and lust.

Mine Host's welcome all and sundry in
To first partake of some tonic with gin,
And chat with those of a similar taste
Seating is limited, so please make haste.