On a Friday afternoon, it was tragic 

We were ready for the weekend, ecstatic  

Our small cubicle was filled with the smell of bread, garlic, and butter 

The thought of egg salad on it made me wonder 

As I shuffled some papers and the keyboard 

I looked to my right, then my left

My homemade garlic-butter bread was on the floor

The paper plate was on top of it 

But sadly couldn’t stop the descent

I bent down and rolled both over 

My colleague referenced the five second rule 

I swallowed my own drool 

Considered my shoes and where they’d been 

The carpet beneath that was wearing thin 

“No judgment,” she said 

I sat, dejected, holding that piece of heavenly smelling bread 

I considered E.coli, salmonella, unidentified fungi

Crypto-whatever 

I didn’t want to die 

The idea of my garlic-butter bread egg sandwich 

Was stolen away like Christmas by the Grinch 

Hope deferred

I considered my unborn daughter 

Indecision, thoughts blurred

Decided it as best not to bother

I chucked that seemingly untainted bread into the trash can

With remorse 

Opted for just the eggs and salad – an incomplete course 

I thought my daughter owes me already 

But loves keeps no record of wrongs 

I was really the one who’d been unsteady 

My colleague delighted in the lingering smell 

I mourned the loss of the bread as I looked down at the carpet where it fell 

There was a tap on our door 

The man said, “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re here about the carpet”

His crony said, “This one’s due to come up, hasn’t been cleaned in ages; we’ve gotta measure it”

And our manager chimed in behind him: “There’s pizza and garlic bread in the kitchen”

Longing fulfilled

Me, my co-worker, my unborn daughter were all thrilled