Where are those peaches?

Where are those peaches?
The ones whose juices dripped down my chin?
That clung to their pit, each crevice a gold mine for my pudgy, picky fingers.
Gone now, the way of the butter & egg man, the corner butcher and Chevrolet station wagons.
Not even the fruit stand at my farmer’s market has peaches that pleasure,
bring end-of-summer gratitude
before it all goes to sleet and slush and bone-cold weariness.
I turn to new-fangled heirloom tomatoes to quench my need.
Will they be remembered by my sons with wistful longing?