LATE NIGHT MARTINIS
Out beyond the ambient light, glassof gin, rumor of vermouth, a few olives,
we’re sitting on black wrought iron lawn chairs,
talking poetry & friendship, love & loss.
Above us, the indifferent stars glitter
cold light. A chorus of coyotes
calls from the woods. Supposedly,
we come from spindrift and stardust.
No doubt about the dust to which we will
return. Those stars are set in their patterns:
there’s a ladle, a dragon, a celestial belt.
We wobble in our orbits, unsure and alone.
Will there be a gathering by the river
or a blank nothing at the end of the day?
My long-stemmed glass, which is now
half-empty, seems to me half-full.
Barbara Crooker
