We went to Casa Carbone for dinner–
Mom doesn’t cook, and Ben was craving chicken parm.
The host sat us in our usual spot in the corner,
beneath the Sicilian landscape mural.

The white-skirted woman in its background
seemed to watch our every bite,
trying to spot what was wrong with the picture
that lay before her.

Napkins in laps, we pushed around conversation
as noodles ******* our forks
and the crimson tablecloth
hid the day’s spaghetti stains.

When it came time for boxes and the bill
the waiter finally posed the question
that none of us had had the courage to ask:
“Where’s Dad tonight, folks?”

He was beneath some other mural with someone else;
but without his RSVP, we couldn’t have known.
And so we chuckled at the waiter,
without a reply of our own,

because we hadn’t an answer, only each other–
the three of us
at a table set for four.

Drying grasses climb the hillsides,
dotted with fall’s hues: saffron, lavender, rust.
Below lies an orchard--trees holding York Imperials,
ripe for the picking.

Branches meander, intertwine, and cross.
Some bow low to extend their offerings;
others strain to hide a Golden Delicious
overhead, out of reach.

The trees’ leaves darken, harden, and curl.
Feet fall upon those that have
drifted to the ground; the crunch
mimics the apple’s crisp bite.

The Rome Beauties are dimpled and pock-marked,
their surfaces spotlit by the sun.
Fist-sized with sloping sides
and bobbing heads--dangling, waiting.

Aside from the worm-claimed and the decayed,
the pick is yours.

I remember days when you would don your garden pants,
the periwinkle ones with sherbet-splattered blooms
of pink and orange dahlias.

They came to a halt just above your ankles,
skimming the tongues and velcro latches of your shoes--
size nine narrow.

And you would count for me as we held the spray over each plant,
four hands on the hose: yours wrinkled with tall veins,
mine monkey-bar calloused.

We waded through fern forests, pausing to make knee-shaped
divots in the mulch, while the pants dampened
with dew from morning grass.

Seasons later, your garden was traded for a vase
of carnations on a hospital nightstand,
and your sun for fluorescence.

And I returned to trace our route through the yard, alone,
counting as I sprayed the blossoms, wearing for you
your garden pants.

Your scrawls slants rightward, with g's that look like s's.
The stamp is always square with the envelope's corner,
and you include the time of composition beneath the date.

Three months apart and I can hardly picture your hands anymore,
the way your left palm must drag behind the pen, leaving this trail
of smudgy footprints that tiptoe around your words.

I read of your dreams: to drive an old convertible down I-15,
listening to Tom Petty– the pinnacle of American existence, you say;
to have a daughter; to still go to concerts at age 40.

You tell me how you designate different books for bedtime
and for doing laundry. Sometimes you secretly listen to Colbie Callait.
And you've found yourself praying lately, most often for us.

You say you are thinking of taking up the banjo,
but will I ever get to watch your fingers wander its strings,
your tongue resting on your lower lip in concentration?

As my eyes scan the lines and I draft my reply, I find myself
wishing for more than a pen-pal-lover; that you would show up
at my door and I could hold the hand that crafts these words.

Your bedtime story version of us begins, "Once upon a time,
there were two extremely attractive, smart, funny, people..."
You wrote that you hope it has a happy ending.

*I hope so too.

crammed in corrals
hissing whispers of escape
and hoping their
size and shade
captivates
the next sticky-fingered cart rider

mother's mind so mobbed
and arms so grocery-laden
that the ribbed
and loosely coiled ribbon
remains unknotted, unbowed
to slip
from pudgy-fingered grips

the orb bobs and sways–
laughing, helium-high
as it makes its getaway
unknowingly following Icarus
to a solar ******
that is, if beak or plane
doesn't reach it first

POP!
shattered and tattered, irreparable
it plummets back to earth

its noose
still dangling from its neck

Harris Teeter was our concrete niche.
We called it Harry *****, and I would visit you there
your last summer at home.

You were a bag boy;
sometimes you corralled green carts,
pushing them in rows in the rain.

On our first date
you tied a leaky balloon to my wrist
to follow my route above the aisles.

And while your greasy, bespectacled boss
listened to customers' complaints about
rotten pears, lost receipts, expired coupons,

you found my bobbing balloon
and snuck me into the carpeted break room–
coffee-stained, fluorescent-lit dinginess.

All I could think about was my wagon
full of groceries, abandoned in the store.
But then you whispered, dimpled,

that this was what made work worthwhile,
and I thought of nothing but your honey lips
and arms that fit me like a worn sweater.

In the minutes it took my blue balloon
to drain its helium and graze the ground,
wrinkled and stretch-marked and fetal-curled,

we strolled the aisles and ate free dragon cookies,
arguing creamy vs. crunchy, fresh vs. frozen.
Our fingers pointed to the makings of our favorite meals.

You re-donned your cherry apron
and piled my cart with bags irrelevant,
while your boss remained as naive as I.

The bar is a refuge for the lonely
in this diner with its
sugar-and-cream salt-and-pepper pairs
and coupled glasses lining the shelves

At the counter you can sit
with the booths for two at your back
and spoon your delicate date–
a well-dressed slice of coconut cream cake