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# Longing
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/longing/
- Published: 2026-08-17T14:58:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-08-17T14:58:00.000Z
- Description: “Longing,” a day dream harkening back to the summer pleasures of a local Maine lobster roll interrupted by the realities of the office day, written Monday, August 17, 2026 poem 229 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Lobster Roll Still Life," by Diana Ludwick © 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Culinary, Dry Humor, Faux Lament, Food Tourism, Homage, Humor, Of Place, Poems, travel, Unserious, August, Banker's Blue, Bite into Maine, Body, Butter, Chives, Clavicle, Curry, Dreams, Emergency, Fact and Fiction, High Summer, Lobster, Lobster Rolls, Maine Lobster, Malacostracans, Mind, Non-file-containing filing cabinet, Office, Overcast, Perspiration, Picnic Table, Portland, Pretzels, Salt, Salty, Soul-Happy, Substitute, Summer, Tears, Thirst, Unsalted, Unscheduled, Vacation, Ziploc, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

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.