he called her blessed, to himself, when they first met
even though he knew she had a more modern name: shenequia
but he claimed he did not have an ear for modern names
and his mouth, obeying his ear, refused to form the word
as her face eased into a modest smile
he had met her during the state of emergency
he called the number, given by a friend
when he could not move about because of the new sickness
she had answered and later arrived to deliver
the vegetables and the fruit that he had ordered.
she had backed her rusting truck into the little shade of the tree
under which he sat and as she stepped out he became a teenaged boy again
rising awkwardly, at his age, to offer her an apple
she politely accepted, stuck it in her apron pocket
and got down to the carting in of the crates
he chattered on then
and she knew, as any discerning woman would
that was ages ago,
now they sit under that same tree that offers so little shade
and recall the day she first came and all that has happened since
and marvel how sweet are the pomme-cytheres still.