The man in the window is cheesecake;
if I could soar across Main St.
and land in his arms, I’d eat him for dessert.
He’s caramel poured in those low-slung jeans,
a Sugar Daddy™ (‘lasts forever if you lick it right’).
He’s marzipan, clean-cut, the jut of his hipbone
reflecting the sun. I’m come undone
by the clockwork of his days,
his devil’s food dismount from that Shimano aluminum bike,
how he disappears inside the foyer.
If he were mine,
I’d ride him like a stolen bicycle.
He strips down to sweetmeat, Monday through Friday, 5 p.m.
“Happy Hour,” when
he hangs the bike on the wall.
And me, happy to watch his muscles ripple.
He stretches out on the bed, my creature of habit,
his O’Henry™ straining against its wrapper.
This I know:
He’s an all-day sucker.
He doesn’t believe in drapes.