A Meal with You

Always my favorite, reliving this,

under the Golden Arches,

every single Filet-o-Fish, no,

really, if you could have been here

it was this big, still is —

I hold my hands out,

can’t ever stretch my arms wide enough

to possibly demonstrate the scale,

enormous, the size of this one that got away,

my arms reaching for impossible limits

to show how big,

this one that got away,

every time on that cold spring Madison day,

long ago and, yes, so proverbially far away,

a galaxy, the sound of the stars coming out,

dancing a perfume that was just you,

letting all those lines slip through my empty fingers,

unwrapping then, unboxing now,

how we waste these days,

the same old sandwich again, and again

I make the meal that breaks a bit of bread with you.

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