Wrist wheedled from out honed steel, 
hot-washed to a surgical shimmer, 
You glow Pistachio.
Paddles and scoops, marble-top ready, 
hot water ensconced,
Get doled nocciola.
Glass shielded in bins like 
incubated babies, pastel- 
swaddled line-up in bassinets,
What a summons.
A queue worthy of cordons, 
in flip-flops, heels, and nearly
no clothing, point-ing fingers, 
palms resting messy on plexi-
glass, sweating away, senses ramped up              
to an ogle, primed to envelop your charms.
Taste that quick-fix return.
To gravel-etched knees, fresh 
bloodied chins, fireflies a-blink 
in Kerr jars, bare feet in creeks, forts in trees,
balls in the street, kisses round a bottle—O
these summer’s domed sweet loaves— 
Hold our heavens. 

Photo by Kadir Celep on Unsplash