Romance Aisle

We are not allowed to eat while we are
open
but I’ve a fresh muffin hidden, sweet with berries:
my clandestine contraband snack.

Above the sounds of selling words in books,
the muffin calls to me, so pained, in pangs: My darling!
I respond as if commanded by a greater plot,
turning my back to feast behind a line of buyers.

Amid the falling crumbs I twirl, hair fanning,
and love the next customer close-mouthed.