Summer Lunch

Down at the Pizza Factory
you can get a mini pizza for a buck
plus a quarter for each topping.

Bonnie and I are now old enough
to walk to town, pay our own way
with baby-sitting cash. Perched at a front
table, we watch other kids strut past
in high-top Nikes or Candies,
but our legs are Q-T enhanced,
shapely in simple sandals.

We ignore the spiked-hair
boys playing pinball. Joking
with the waitress, Bonnie says
those older guys two tables over
will buy our lunch. And they do

because we're short-shorts and banana clips,
a breath of August heat.
We're their best friend's girlfriend
talking in their sleep.

We're a last chance at summer
under a high noon clock.
We're the window seat sun
glazed in strawberry gloss.