Longing

On this festeringly hot and muggy Monday 
in the doldrums of the D.C. suburbs,
I may be in Maryland, but Maine lingers
on my mind, in my body. 

This first day back after a vacation 
brings with it a dulling, a blending of fact and fiction, 
a beckoning back to the place where I was last unscheduled, 
at the whim of my feet, wallet and stomach.

I yearn for once last bite of summer.
I could dive deeply into a triptych 
of sea-sweet, pink tail meat and slippery claw
freshly extracted from cold water, 
rocky cove-dwelling Malacostracans
—better known as lobsters.

I close my eyes, pretend that 
my sweat-streaked, banker's blue button-down 
is instead the wide open ceilings of Portland's sky.
I launch back a few days, tumbling through time.

I reunite with my soul-happy self:
the version of me holding a paper boat 
laden with perky mini rolls
while perched on a stool at an open-air bartop
in high noon sun, where my Chronically Inside skin 
met welcome, gentle rays drawing me like a stick of unsalted.

I can feel that hefty 'Bite into Maine' luncheon platter in my hand:
anointed with warm butter, or curry,
or celery salt and chives, each of three griddled rolls 
overflowed with bounty.
Show-stoppers individually; together they evoke tears.

The bead of perspiration that drips down my clavicle,
earned from a punishing, confusing overcast glare
dislodges me from my summer lovin' on lobster dreams.

Back within my present circumstances, 
my closest substitute for a prize roll
is a Ziploc of stale pretzels stashed for an emergency, 
in my non-file-containing filing cabinet.
Salty, like those pretzels, I thirst for more.