Only Here

Cherry pie thick with sticky juice

that stains the chipped white plate,

folded crust crumbling,

sweet, sharp against the tongue.

I tasted summers folded inside,

inside my cousin’s cramped kitchen,

where laughter stretched long and thin,

and afternoons hung like ripe fruit on the vine.

Here, the pie remembers the heat,

and the cracked linoleum floor,

never quite the same outside this small diner

where the waitress smiles, pours coffee black,

and the clock ticks slow with memory.