PEACH COBBLER
You met me in a diner on Route 9
somewhere up the Taconic,
and I bought you coffee and peach cobbler.
I lusted after you at once
and you knew it. Was I that obvious?
You wiped whipped cream from your mouth
and of course I saw it differently,
dismissive gesture, eradication,
nullity, not cruel rejection
but unmistakable, despising my seed.
Nothing would grow, ever--
only my thoughts of you, in a sad diner
near a traffic circle where a cop
came in on break, drank his coffee, ate
his peach cobbler, and then left.
When I drove off it was early morning
and the sunglare was appalling, bouncing
off the hood and wrapping me in darkness
at 8 AM on the Taconic State Parkway,
listening to talk radio and talking to myself.
KW
(The Taconic State Parkway runs from just north of New York City and ends around Albany, the State Capital. I was picturing a spot about 30 miles north of the city line,)
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