Shirley Temple (revised)

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.

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