No, my sweet,
I would not enjoy
any additional breadsticks.  

I would not like
your salt and garlic speckled
dough cocks.

Even for this place,
they taste,
like all the dusty indistinguishable days
of the rest of your life.

And of course there are
your thighs
to consider,

the way your dingy khaki’s
stretch taut across your delta,
your belt dipping slightly at that boundary
which has no name
but is infinitely fascinating,
perfectly contoured to the path of a finger
or a tongue.

The hardly perceptible curve
of your belly caressing the crimson polo
that does such disservice to your complexion,
which should be plumed in pastels of mint and celeste.
Ask me.

Ask me how long and far my lips would wander,
the places that my hands would find
to meddle,

to muddle up your heart.
Don’t tell me you aren’t tired,
weary of wearing that same
old shaggy shift.

Don’t try that little lie,
as if you never noticed
the people who
no longer talk to you
about getting out of this town.  

Or have you too made pace
with that amaurotic procession?
Yielded up that spark
for a receipt marked:
“WISDOM”?
I offer a different kind of wisdom.  

Yes dear,
You I would enjoy,

but please,
Please,
Fuck off with the bread.