I melt like an avalanche of butter
drowning in a pile of blueberry pancakes
at the Dysart’s truck stop on the Maine turnpike.
How could she possibly remember my name
In her busy life filled with the rain of confetti
for all of her creative accomplishments?
I thought she took my presence for granted
like a buzzing fly on the wall of no matter.
When our bodies finally did meet, she remembered me.