For what it implies,
An end to youthful indulgence and innocent times,
An end to sprinkles and strudel—hand sliced and so fresh,
Now, a well-worn cookie sheet laid to its rest.
Faintly, I hear Franz Steiner’s gentle voice,
I see his smiling face.
Fondly, I recall a special man,
He nurtured a special place.
Fervently crafting perfection from corn, blueberry and raisin bran,
Always, the familiar white apron and ever-present floury hands.
Oh, the meltaways we all adore,
Early morning customers always wanting more.
Jelly donuts, filled with love,
Oh, those Boston Creams,
Steiner’s shop was heaven on Earth,
A quintessential sweet lover’s dream.
Alas, April first marks the solemn date,
His business sadly closed,
Steiner’s (beloved) Pastry Shop at 432 Plandome Road.
Perhaps, Mr. Steiner (well-rested) will return someday,
With fresh orders to fill,
New friends to behold,
His seven layer and meltaway.