Miss Butter

I said "Invincible"

she said, "why do you think I'm invisible?"



She'd whirled her skirt,

bingo-yellow,

high, buttery cheekbones,

blonde, non-sticking face.



Milkmaidish and waiting for a churn,

a post-coitus nap upon a piping biscuit.



I said, "No one likes a dry potato."

She showed me parcels of salt and milk.



I bought a covered dish and even

a small, flat fork.



I sliced my wallet in two

and dropped it in the toaster.



She giggled as bills burnt,

she whirled her naked hair.



I lay on my back and tried to melt beside her.