The Missing Thing
By Joel Brouwer
He rose before her every morning
to walk three rainy February blocks
to the best and cheapest boulangerie.
Our secret, they said, and didn't tell friends.
Bonjour Madame, bonjour Monsieur,
une baguette s'il vous plaît, oui Monsieur,
merci Madame, merci Monsieur.
The spell had to be pronounced perfectly
to accomplish the magic. By the time
he returned, she had everything ready,
the jam pots and butter, bowls of coffee.
Her skin still lustrous with sleep as she turned
toward him. He kissed her with his coat on, she
gleaming with heat, he with cold. I'm only
missing one thing, she said. Indicating
the black plastic basket on the table.
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