The Last Lebkuchen

Some thoughts on realizing this is THE END.

 

 

Today I ate the last lebkuchen [unplanned].

Fitting for a drizzly Friday:

no silver platter, no fanfare;

just a Tupperware container

and a cup of coffee

from the office break room.

 

Today I ate the last lebkuchen [unintentionally].

The taste of ginger and black licorice

mixes with the bitter blackness of my morning brew,

the hardened sugar glaze

snaps and crunches,

and I eventually tip the crumbs

into my upturned mouth.

 

Today I ate the last lebkuchen [unintended].

Not the last of the season or of the year

– the last, ever.

Others styling themselves as such,

imported in embossed tins and gilded boxes

from Nuremberg,

come not from the hometown bakery, lying silent

 – recipes dormant, machinery still, counters empty.

Though one should buy it,

restore the electricity, open the doors,

the lebkuchen would not be the same.

The rude mechanicals produce but marred facsimiles

devoid the loving secrets

the dedication of decades brings.

 

Today I ate the last lebkuchen [accidentally].

Now I face an eternity without them:

the yapping maw of the abyss

will long for their divinity

and remain unsatisfied;

as I gaze into it

and it back at me,

we will remember this small joy

of life and smile

– briefly.

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I’ve been experimenting with my writing, and I want to know: