The view of the Oxbow
in the Connecticut River, from Mount Sugarloaf,
is captivating, and the crack of lobster shells
answer one another, as we draw out the sweetness
of the red and white meat from their exoskeletons,
as our whispered exclamations of oh express
our delight in their taste, flavored with melted butter.
Life shared and the memory such as this laid down
in early August in New England provides
for the reason to make note of this for others
to relish long after the white wine in the blue bottle
is corked and the remnants of the hollow shells
are tucked away in cardboard boxes to be picked
at back home, as we invest ourselves in parlaying
those delectable morsels into the mnemonic
of what is gustatory and to be savored.
How appropriate that you blinked your high beams
behind me, later, as you turned off: only a friend
who has lasted through the decades would do
something such as that, so effortlessly, and be wise
in knowing that they were being well understood.
