Tag Archives: Mabon Street

A Connection on Mabon Street

We sit at Buff’s on a Sunday afternoon
finishing our cones,
the ice cream dripping
into the sugar matrix
like sand in the timepiece
we admired the evening before,
in the furniture store
closing its doors,
forever,
on Main Street.

Today we are on Mabon Street,
but I pay no attention
to its name or the people
who come and go,
who order their cones,
and sundaes and belly busters.
And our eyes are too locked
on each other to consider
if the courteous young man
serving all these sweets
wonders what two people
of our generation
linger long after the cones are gone,
or what we find to talk about,
or find so interesting,
just staring into each other’s eyes,
our aged hand stacked like
English cheddar on olive Triscuits,
our final seconds together like sand
pouring onto Mabon Street
from the hands of the big clock
over the parlor door.

Somewhere on Interstate 80
it occurs to me that
the farther I drive away
the closer I draw to you,
and I think about the young man
behind the counter on Mabon Street.
And I wonder if he
will someday be 63
and understand how
wonderful it feels
and why it matters
to be connected
like ice cream to a cone,
cheese to a cracker,
hand to a hand,
and sand to eternity.

 

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