C’mon, you cute thing,
ask me to meet you
at the soda shop

where you’ll buy me
a malted that a white
paper-hatted boy

will deliver to our
booth with three straws.
You’ll give me two,

you’ll take one, and
our teeth will chill
and our brains

will freeze a bit
as we share all that
chocolate frothiness.

Sure, we’ll pretend
to study, one book
open as if we’re eager

to dive into geometry
or Spanish or history.
But the history we’re

after is what we’re
making right here,
if we’re lucky,

a snapshot we’ll
look back on someday
when we’re old

and the kids are
grown, and we’ve got
more time behind us

than ahead. I’ll say,
“Remember this, hon?”
And even if you don’t,

you’ll catch my eye
as you did on that
first date, and say,

“Sure do, babe,”
taking my small
hand in your big one,

something that will
—I promise—
still make me smile.