You watch me thumbing a clear line
Down the spines on the shelf
Like you have never thought
To touch a book.

But this is my produce aisle.

I squeeze my vegetables unapologetically,
Love to feel the crispness of a new one,
The soft flesh of the old.

You are the problem, gripping
Your hungry fingers behind your
Back in Museum Stance and
Biting your lusty tongue.

But I feed happily on rich
Words and feel the belly
Bulge with pride.

Not I the problem,
You.