At the Bakery near the Bank on River Street

Cynthia Cinnamon Roll and Father Feingold Fritter

Quietly debated

After Father Fritter whispered

“I think that we’re related.”

Cynthia Cinnamon Roll twisted ‘round

Staring through an icy glaze

“Why Father Fritter,” she exclaimed

“What a thing to say!”

Before Father Fritter found the phrasing

To fittingly respond

A hand reached down for Cindy

And suddenly she was gone

The hand returned for Father Fritter

And lifted him as well

Then dropped him in a paper bag that had

A “cinnamon-ish” smell

Father Fritter glanced at Cindy

Who had closed her eyes so softly

Though they were friends, they never spoke again

But went out once for coffee