Spilled Flour

The kid, all arms and clumsy grace,

sent the whole tray crashing down.

Pastries, sticky buns, all over the place,

a sweet, soft mess on the ground.

My breath hitched, waiting for the shout,

the red face, the anger's sting.

But the baker, he just sighed it out,

'Don't worry, mate. Just sweep the thing.'

His hand, not clenched, but open wide,

pointing to the broom, not the spill.

A quiet kindness, deep inside,

a moment holding perfectly still.