Through the window of
the bakery, (which may I
add, had a curved glass),
the stacked bread read of
prose. Names, ingredients,
even punctuated with seeds,
currants and pockmarked.
Inside, it resembled a book
signing with the author in
house, giving a pan precis
from behind the podium in
her floury apron which had
a beau knot at the back over
her pert derriere. All of this
and as yet, I was but a peruser.
The glass felt warm, its soft
roundness which led to the
frame, invited palming, such
a seductive allure and an
outward opening door assured
each en passant an opiation of
her perfumery which led to
and immediate addiction.

            "Monsieur"