Seventeen minutes ago, I was in love
  with the cashier and a cinnamon pull-apart,
    seven minutes before that, it was a gray-

  haired man in argyle socks, a woman
    dancing outside the bakery holding
        a cigarette and broken umbrella. The rain,

   I've fallen in love with it many times,
      the fog, the frost—how it covers the clovers
         —and by clovers I mean lovers.

    And now I'm thinking how much I want to rush up
        to the stranger in the plaid wool hat
                and tell him how much I love his eyes,

     all those fireworks, every seventeen minutes, exploding
          in my head—you the baker, you the novelist,
                    you the reader, you the homeless man on the corner

      with the strong hands—I've thought about you. But
            in this world we've been taught to keep
                        our emotions tight, a rubberband ball we worry

       if one band loosens, the others will begin shooting off
              in so many directions. So we quiet.
                            I quiet. I eat my cinnamon bread

        in the bakery watching the old man still sitting
                at his table, moving his napkin as he drinks
                                his small cup of coffee, and I never say,

         I think you're beautiful, except in my head,
                  except I decide I can't
                                    live this way, and walk over to him and

          place my hand on his shoulder, lean in close
                    and whisper, I love your argyle socks,
                                        and he grabs my hand,

           the way a memory holds tight in the smallest
                      corner. He smiles and says,
                                            I always hope someone will notice.