An empty park picnic table
cooled by the light,
whispering breeze,
spotted by the burning
life-giving sun.

I see us there.
chatting,
laughing,
enjoying each others company
in this never-ending summer.

I see myself
dressing up as the wife,
laying out a picnic basket
and table cloth.
Pouring iced tea
into a chilled glass,
Watching the condensation
slide down your fingertips
as your throat
gulps in the refreshment.

I lay a blanket
on the grass,
inviting you to come sit.
We lay.

And that chuckling breeze
picks up
and lifts the whole of
my 1950s homemaker dress.

You smooth it back down,
lowering your hand on my hip.
The wind has stopped,
but you keep smoothing away…
down my thighs,
across my backside,
up my back,
until my head is
cupped in your hands
nearing closer to your face.

I would not call it a kiss,
because a “kiss” is too
short a word, too precise
and too emotionless
to fit this phenomenon.
You embrace me fully
leaving no passion unaccounted for,
no ounce of me left untouched.

I succumb to your embrace
and we start to make love when…

A car horn beeps.
I blink.
Look around, and remember
that I’m sitting in a
library parking lot
looking at an empty picnic table.