This Is Not a Love Poem

It is a poem about a blueberry muffin.

I asked you once to visit me at the coffee shop,
where we might sit and possibly push the bangs
out of each other’s eyes.

You asked me, “Do they sell muffins?”
and I said, “Yes, of course, it’s a coffee shop.”
But they did not sell muffins. You came anyway.

I am at work now, and have just placed the last
blueberry muffin in a plastic clam-shell container,
clicked the locks into place, thought about you.

The muffin stares out of its translucent shell, an eye
on every movement, its gaze following me with
the weight of judgment. The muffin does not speak

of course, but I can see the guilty verdict in its eyes.
I am using the muffin as a bribe, as an olive branch, even.
And if that doesn’t work, if the muffin is not enough,

I have written you a love poem just in case.