Why I Tipped the Night Clerk with a Maple Log

We don’t park before the waterfall
or above city cemetery overlooking the capitol—

we don’t have to: we’re the new epidemic’s poster kids
speeding to the motel from the pastry shop.

On the cheap sheets, food network on the TV,
she’s wearing her strawberry silk bra and my boxer’s are still on,

but we exchange butter croissants
dripping with marmalade gooped on with a plastic motel spoon.

Soon its chocolate chips with macadamia nuts
and oreos dipped in marshmallow fluff.

In each other’s arms, now covered in sugar glaze,
we look through doughnuts with pink frosting and pastel sprinkles.

We breath deep from our souls speaking of medieval bakeries;
the burps coming through chocolate milk moustaches.

After the cinnamon buns made an excited mess,
I lick the apple fritter frosting from her finger tips.