The dark cut of you
white fingers stroking wedge
of pumpkin bread steaming
tasted much like a friday
butter running down
saturday's thighs
with a wedding train
into thursday
brushing against the tender
bud teeth bared
like a blue monday
into what eyes melting
like morning light
rolling away into
sunday resurrects
the taste like a cave
my mother calls from
even as I head
outside with eyes
dull as butter knives.


There's a place that's open late
on Main, and I emerge
what you might call furtively,

with a thick-sliced split-top loaf
of sprouted wheat. That is
exactly what she said. I notice

these things now, and how
Main is not the street
it used to be. Stuck somewhere

between '50's Americana and
financial deco, the banks, say my aunts,
are much sprightlier and more common
than in the Depression, when no one
had money, but "everyone had family."
As for my caution, no use, there's

the same pair of hands, overalls
ripped in back, eyes fixed on me,
but from a distance now, I've

established that I'm no easy mark.
Let them see me set down my
extra loaf, whistle uncovincingly,

and walk-jog to the car.

- Perry Sams