Out of Time

I loved our lunches each day last year,  glasses of crisp chilled rose, fried oysters, and those divine brussel sprouts.  You would meet me at the end of my session at the Fine Arts Work Center, and we would leisurely walk down Commercial street until we came upon the line at the Canteen where we would look at other things on the menu but proceed with the same order as the day before, and the day before that.  Late on this night, I travel the length from the east end to the west when I pass the restaurant and dream again of those oysters.  Three times this past week I have stopped by to bask in the memory of our lunches and partake of this decadent treat.  But alas, on this night, as on the others, they are gone for the day.  So, I sit on my stool by the bar, eat my lobster roll and watch the barkeep in his tiger tee shirt and dream of oysters.