Baklava from Samir's

I catch myself thinking
of baklava,
the guilt-ridden pleasures
of that baklava,
crushed with scoops and mouthfuls
of icecream
and berries and
kiwi fruit.

Across the street
that no one visits,
sits my baklava
in a black casket,

by the cash register
of a Lebanese grocery,
wound by a golden thread;

my thread, which I've
treasure chested,
in a nook in the
dry kitchen cabinet.

The shop women,
loud and beautiful,
asked for kisses
from a customer's child,

as I stood waiting
timid with cash,
wondering
how they will give away
their warmth
to this customer.