THE SHAKEDOWN

It all came back

when I wrapped my lips

around the rim of the straw.

The Ground Cow, in Auburn, CA.

The roadside burger palace 
my parents would stop at

on our way to Lake Tahoe.

And how, as a boy, I would order,

with my burger and fries,

a vanilla milkshake.

The shake would arrive—a meal

unto itself—in the 30 oz.

stainless steel mixing cup.

It was so thick

that no amount of sucking brought

ice cream to my lips. 
And yet I sucked anyway.

So hard, in fact, I thought

that if I wasn’t careful

I’d suck myself right down 

the straw and into 

the creamy swamp 

of the shake itself.

Back then, my imagination was

so potent and had such a pull,

that just thinking something

nearly made it so.