like gingerbread

Your fingers smell like gingerbread
Did you know that?
Which makes me suspicious because you don’t bake
And you are graying prematurely on your head
Which puzzles me, you being in your 20s
Your father, meanwhile, who is my boss, or was, is like jelly
or a wet washcloth on his leather chair on the porch
His hair is covered in fresh-fallen snow in upstate New York
I did not expect to see him like this
He is an important CEO with his own office
with two guest chairs and a couch
and he oversees hundreds of workers
In light of all this, I notice your face is bleached,
albeit speckled with something like cocoa
Each spot seems to be instructing me where to kiss — like GPS coordinates
Let’s say we stay ahead of the snowfall and drive to my place this afternoon,
where I will watch your skin flush into late-September McIntosh
You can coax me like you should do more often into your heavy Backcountry jeans
with the hefty bronze zipper that is exceptionally audible on the way down
You have a smell like gingerbread over there, too, by the way, but no trace of gray,
which is reassuring, not to mention surprising
Speaking of which, I really want to know, do you twirl those hairs
like you do the adorable ringlets that fall against your striking cheekbones?