you make me want to set a singular place
for you at my late night table
so that you may watch me
bake pastries for you
me wearing nothing
but my red williams sonoma apron
and black heels

each delicate confection
forced full with sweet cream
and fruit flesh

a slow drizzle of raw honey in places
they would arrest me for it in west virginia
i’ll even grind your beans
and serve you fresh cappuccino after

if we make it that long