Mixing Manhattans in Heaven
When skies drizzle over Baltimore,
I taste bourbon in the air and know
my parents are drinking Manhattans—two each—
in a bistro in another realm,
where ice cubes like stars clink into night;
maraschino cherries dazzle the winter-weary earth.
After cocktails, my father leads the choir, blends
a bevy of languages into song. My mother
crochets a pearl afghan every angel covets.
My parents lounge, share a cloud,
reminisce about how they met at a bus stop
in the spring of 1940.
I want one more happy hour with them,
a wedge of time to toast their light, the way
they shape this new green season.