Bread and Fish

by William Powley

When we arrive at Zwingli Street

Number Thirty Four

at two-thirty P.M., Frau Lachman

watches us through her window,

one hand on the red curtains,

the other on a white flower

pot rim. She is curious, old,

cooking sauerkraut on the stove,

boiled potatoes skinned, steaming

on a plate, the smell flows

out all three windows

of her second story apartment.

She smiles when we come,

we represent the God

she has never heard about,

to bring back life in her,

to save her, to give bread and fish,

to look out the window by her side.