Months since I’ve seen you, on an entirely flat day,
a waitress sets a Shirley Temple in front of me,
with that plump stemmed ruby on the top,
and my thoughts automatically bob back
to your glinting tongue, a Maraschino cherry,
and your sugar laugh that had stirred me
pink, bubbly, and
ecstatic.
My cheek clanking against my palm,
I had sipped every ounce of you in
savoring your effervescence,
my flouncing heartbeat, our warming cheeks,
until the waitress’s eyes had plead for a picture.
We had reached across the wooden chaperone,
frozen our grenadine grins and
waited.
Both of us paralyzed
by the first swallow of a sweet
that could hardly last the night.
