Buttercup Babe

(New Stuff: a moot point)
Visiting America, I met her
in a field of renoncules that
locals call butter cups

She’s my darling Buttercup
a compatriot

She wanted to offer me a partnership
in her business and to share business.

But much ado about love in the dew
and then onward afield ’til

we were back for a romp
under and around
the Arc de Triomphe
to play like tourists and
then marched to her home,
palace of the cuisinière
at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.

We homed in on her nest
over the bakery with zest, and
she was hot because the
spice of the day made for
joy and frolic at home

We chilled with a wine
she recommended for the night
and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy

and as our voices modulated to a purr
we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough
and my Buttercup
melted in the bed.

We kneaded in layers of joy
to be crisp and flaky like a croissant

In the morning, I left early to buy butter and
I had wondered: what is a croissant
if to do it is not to have it?

I came back uncertain.

I proposed:
My darling Buttercup,
let me keep this butter,
have the bakery, and
I will make you a croissant with love.

Well, she said:
You want the butter and
the money from the butter
and le cul de la crémière…
So you my love, must bring me
a buttercup of the field and I will
peer into your eyes until I decide
if you’re flaky enough to cook.

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