Lloyd points out the hamburger joint
of his first love, where they sat in the booth
just grinning like hogs and ate the green pickles last,
ketchup smearing new corners to their mouths.
He was eight.  She was 11, the neighbor's only daughter,
too old for him to love but young enough to say yes
to any offer of treats.  He remembers just this:

a pink tank top, yellow hair and two scrawny legs
learning how to be long.  She was always
a good influence, made him finish his fries
and not spill all the salt on the backseat like usual.
In high school she would go on to date certain athletes,
men bigger than Lloyd, with fast wallets and slow cars
and start a new wobble across crowded churches
to men she'd leave standing alone just for spite.
Now Lloyd just sighs for buns that grow soggy
from spatters of grease and from the old want
that makes all those good sandwiches fall apart.