If you took a sip of me today
you’d realize how flat I’ve become.
“Where’s the fizz?” you’d protest,
“Where’s the bubble, the spray, the play?”
You can’t send me back to whence I came,
the kitchen is closed,
the busboys went home,
the fan above the stove cut quiet.
We stand in the light
from the cracked refrigerator door,
a curtain of soft night light
breaking in through the window behind us.
All the world is quiet,
the mice in the back yard
have raised their whiskered snouts to attention
as a possum passes by like a ghost.
I reach for the place
where your heart thumps wild,
foraging in the moonlight for clues
of who we’ve become:
the shake of a pandemic,
the swirl of lockdown and revolution,
the clinking of gun shots round the way,
the condensation of uncertainty
wet in our hands.
You stayed up all night
with whiskey courage
and I lay sweating in bed,
the morning not arriving fast enough.
Our town was on fire.
We did the best that we could.
And realizing now
–years later —
and the pop
were now gone.
Leave a Reply