wears an elegant wardrobe,
decollete, with a thigh-high split.

I’m almost 17, making a delivery
during the war for a local drug store.
She pays me with a big fat tip,
invites me in for a yummy taste
of blueberry pie she’s just baked.

She tells me her back is in pain—
do I have time to give her a back rub?
Her stereo is ablaze with the vibrato
of Edith Piaf while she offers me
a sip of homemade wine, brewed
by her husband before he left her.

I sit on her sofa and wonder:
Is this the fantasy I’ve had before
on my delivery route? it can’t really be true.
Are we both phantoms in a mutual dream?
We both seem to savor the mystery
of the perfect moment—no dialogue necessary.

My body and soul is willing in more ways
than I care to say.
But it’s the very best blueberry pie
that I’ve ever tasted, before or since.