Food for the fat is like air. It fills you up
and lifts you out of the chair where otherwise
you sit like a dead seal.
                                                But with pastry you soar.
The roar of ignition, the heavy ground recedes.
Cares, sorrows sift out and float in air, just
another cloud—whipped cream,
                                                                schlag—it does not
tempt you, does not preempt the plans for the day,
those plans which, stuck in your chair, you despaired
of effecting.