The ink barely dry on his divorce papers,
the farmer turned real estate broker
walks in the bookstore and tells me
he reads a book a day and wants to swap.
Then asks me for supper at a small café
across the river where we enjoy lobster
and baked potatoes and conversation
as smooth as the caffeine we sip until
we see the closed sign in the window
and the waitresses napping in their chairs.
Silver anniversary? the waitress asks
as he pays the check. First date, he says.
I nod and she laughs. Such jokers.
 
Like teenagers, we are eating corn
on the cob and shish kabob
in the bleachers at the Blackfoot Fair
as Tim McGraw sings, I like it, I love it
I want some more of it and we drive
in his white Buick to the top of the hill
above the tiny toy city on the tracks.
You kids go home to your folks, says
the policeman with the shiny flashlight.
I go home to my mother with melanoma
and he to his seventeen-year-old son.
 
Twenty-seven years later, mother long
gone, son with kids and wife of his own,
we eat grilled chicken and green beans
in Applebee's sitting smack dab in the spot
where the comfortable café once cuddled
the riverbank, but we skip the freeway
ride to the fair and pick up a DVD
by Sheryl Crow and relax in the recliner
in front of the DVD player and listen
to her sing, Every Day is a Winding Road
and pretend we are seeing her in person
as we revel in the landmarks of our life.

From Survivors, Saints and Sinners (a forthcoming collection).
Used with permission.