Tiny volcanoes of citarette stubs puff
In our faces. The saxophone player
Wears a toupee. Everyone’s hair is
Or would be gray if…
The gifts, a roll-up trailer hose and cord,
Will soon be snaking in
And out from Florida to Texas to LA.
Gargantuan prime ribs
Alarm us. The salad is nondescript. A cynical
Waitress deals out
Slabs of gluey supermarket ice cream.
Bubbles of jovial laughter
Burst above beer bottles. Smiles stretch
Tight from cheek to cheek.
On the dance floor calves still shapely
Fox trot gracefully but almost
Lose control rocking on jitterbug curves
After the plaques and fare-
You wells, the moon blows us home
Like shad on the spring tide.
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