In summers of college I carried
trays of food or two coffee cups
in one hand or four platters
up my arm. A short polyester tan
colored uniform melted
to my newly bloomed body as I pinballed
around the packed Pennsylvania diner
from table to minestrone soup
to rice pudding, and finally
to the narrow opening of counter
where the club sandwich platters
appeared with young Greek
cooks holding on to one end only
releasing when I made eye
contact, wolves hungry for American
girls. Those days I blushed easily
but no one noticed, the kitchen
was always steaming, the heat
made us all a little uncivilized.
Sitting at the counter Eddie watched
me as I poured his coffee, called me
college girl, tried to tease a smile.
His truck driver compact body, black
curly hair and warm browns
for eyes, a slight chip on a front
tooth. He knew it
was a summer thing, picking me
up in his car the size of Montana
taking me nowhere and everywhere.
The slide into heat and sweetness like
the slowest quicksand. He knew
there is a time and there is a place
for some things and they don’t
go beyond that, as if surrounded
by barbed wire, electrified. He knew
he would not be visiting me
in the fall at the liberal
arts college in upstate NY.
I sensed he was right but argued
anyway, like a child that just has
to ask. But anything
less seemed cruel.
Altadena Poetry Review: Anthology 2018