Slamming

The saddest entry in Weekend history, from Deb ….

Lacking

No poems. No Bill.
No Brie.
No Dickes. No Kurt
No Me.

Some boozing.
Some gazing.
Some tubing.
Some grazing.

But,
No pretense. No plays.
And,
No me.

_________________

Being Pickled: A sonnet toast to the grand opening of The Twisted Olive Supper Club

The heedless space of a bulbous Chevy
Encases them.  Find a spot.  They see the host.
Two gimlets to start, drained clean as Evvie
Lowers oil-basked meats.  More drinks.  They toast,

Lost in cackles and haze and paneled murk
And highballs; an extra plate for bones – “Daddy,
Lookit me!” – A drop-by from Ern (and wife) from work,
And heavy creamed drinks near the silver dressing caddy.

The building’s a kind of warehouse today.
The drop-ceiling’s sallowed. Waste oil out back.
Corrosion, from gin and smokes, has its way.
But mostly time.  (In us, years find a snack.)

Yet – in prudent cars – we came:  To* their spirits,
This moment, shining fresh as relish-tray carrots!

* All, please lift glasses here.  This is the time of the toast you lift your glass.

Fully stocked sand bar
Our first hai-canoe

Driftless flotilla.
Trestle? Ed we’re tipping we’re —
Phones in white rice bag

— YOS