Smuggled Goods

i smuggled the goods into her house
wrapped in a towel so no one else
could see the steam still rising off
off its still warm crust or smell
the luscious aroma of just baked
bread. we have our secrets, the
passing back and forth of foods that
should be illegal, we hear our front
doors breathe in their next hit
of orgasmic pastries, a faint click as
the door closes again, and I hear
the gate swing open as she leaves
behind a slice of peach pie, still warm
and disappears into the night.