The Baker's Boy

Yummy pink

& pastried flesh

englistered with sweat

& sweet to the taste

doppled with a sticky mess;

sugared buttons on your chest:

Perfect puckered

nipples--supple, jumping, popping, hissing: (sup them up)

kissing, touching, 

smiling, blushing: shyly, sweetly, deeply . . . truly

creepy.

They know where you live . . .

They've watched us for weeks.

I follow you incessantly.



I am the bee, & you, my honey.



Pretty petty

cream-like/milky white skin

pure, pasteurized, rich

prim;

properly laid out,

passed out on your couch;

pouring over me;

pooling into seas.



I go into that general store,

twice a day (& sometimes more)

to visit you & taste your wares 

You--"that butcher-boy, that baker's son"

	that smells of sex and fresh-baked bread; that

"sweet, sweet, & sweeter still" boy,

that "fresh-meat-perfume doused" eighth wonder of the world.



our retreats

behind the register,

below the counter,

beside the billows that stokes the ovens

hot

inside my head.



And yet unknown to commonfolk

is the extent of all your secrets.

they scratch and muse by the
 
latticed shutters of wiry oak

and mutter of wonders seldom seen--those tender vittles of the senses

classified as far from pristine or clean:

those that lie somewhere in between

malificia and sweet wet dreams.

they bat younger lashes away 

to get a peek at 

the tiny market

which they dare not enter

into

when the sign, oddly, in the middle of the working morn

reads, charmingly: "CLOSED";

they back away in awe & alarm.

 

And on any given day, with suspicion it is said 

in rustly whispers: "he smells like sex

. . . and fresh-baked bread."

• Chy Ryan Spain

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