The world is overstuffed with nonsense sometimes:
barefoot bootcamps, smoothies that drink you,
malevolent food influencers and charismatic cannibals
telling us to eat ourselves thin. Science wants me
to murder every loaf of bread in cold blood while
the pastries watch, so scared of me, they unbake themselves.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not a patisserie,
more of a sports bar: nuts, thighs, wings, broken
karaoke machine, a dozen 50-inch 4K LED flat-screens
playing old highlights of Nadal on the Paris clay.
I want to wrap myself around his bicep like a needy koala.
I know his arm is insured for the price of a successful flour mill,
but I’ve never subscribed to ‘you break it, you buy it’,
or else we’d all be debt collectors and process servers
summoning old flames to account for our spoiled hearts,
leaving very little time for laundry and other household chores,
and even less time for love,
that sticky, delicious dough ball
in constant need of, don’t say it, kneading.
You always say I have nice arms,
I never believed you but I’m starting to
believe that you believe you
and maybe that’s more important
than winning 14 French Open titles.
You make me want to floss with your hair
until my teeth are plaited to your scalp.
You make me want to wake up every morning
and swear fealty to this earth and all its terrible pleasures.
When you start to speak it takes all my strength
not to climb into your mouth and hibernate for winter.
The bread reincarnates as toast looking for revenge
I give up. I take a bite. The toast takes me.
Nadal takes Federer in straight sets.
The bar empties but you stick around
to help wash up, your voice circling the drain,
as I get ready to pitch a tent behind your teeth.
