Terminal Rolls

(by Croissant Rack)

How many people, my doughy God—

They rise like buns before the prod,

All packed with coats and boarding tags,

A smelly crowd of flesh and bags.

Germans tall, with brows that twist,

Like Pretzels shaped by iron fist.

Their heads like Brötchen—firm, well-baked,

Each nod a rule that won’t be faked.

Three Malays, soft and sweet,

Huddled like dinner rolls in heat.

Not quite kids, but soft and shy,

Still rising slow as planes roll by.

Polish heads roll like dumplings, sly.

Pretend they don’t know “cześć" why?

I see that stare, that pierogi glow,

Wrapped in steam, but cold below.

Ukrainian girls with lips so red,

Like cherry rolls fresh from a bread.

Wrapped in coats but heat beneath—

You bite too quick, you burn your teeth!

French baguettes debate with flair,

Water’s 5 euros? Mon Dieu, unfair!

They nibble choice like it’s fine toast,

And sigh, like buttered bread at most.

Italians buzz with sauce and flair,

Espressos flying through the air.

One smells like baked lasagna,

Shouting loud near Gate Italia.

Red head rolls, just one today,

I call him Harry, wand on display.

His fringe like jam, his stare intense—

A Hogwarts snack behind a fence.

And me—I bake and spy and grin,

In apron marked with buttered skin.

They pass, they fly, they never stay…

But smell my rolls and drift away.