A David Gilmour rift mesmerizes me
as we drive past the sign for Little Wall Lake
in a steel-blue Plymouth you picked up
from your aunt’s estate, its door handles
a bother for my small, inarticulate hands.

Each of us hankers for the other.

You hurriedly park beneath a crop
of fiery oaks, these same little hands
already unfastening buttons, undoing zippers,
not so inarticulate after all.

Before I can help thrust your blue jeans
down past your hips — my God, the want of it! —
we hear the rumble of a rusted red Chevy truck
motoring toward us, a grinding halt
to the sordid grinding underway in Esther’s K-car.

Is there any frustration so keen
as coitus interruptus, to October passions
quashed, bodily inclinations rescinded
for the sake of a few catch and release crappies,
bluegill, or largemouth bass?