The Smoothie: Message from Paris
Surely after he made you a frappe
with java, ice cream, caramel,
bursting like suns across your senses
yet cooling you like silk moons—
You could fall for your barista.
Surely after he mixed you a drink:
rum, curacao, heavy cream
whispering its name (“Parisian Blond”)
while shaking the blend, pouring into chilled glass—
You would fall hard for your barista.
Surely after he made with his own hands—
a hot stove the fondant
with clever elegant twists, into the surprise
of raspberry crème, knowing your every need—
You could fall irrevocably for your chocolatier.