That was not now. Now, who knows what?
That was a happy return to feast in the teeth
Of the monster about to feast on us. Waiting
For half an hour to get a table was worth it.
Fantastic omelets and French toast served
With mimosas in glasses the size of a skull.
We were barbarians about to be tossed
Out of the gate, feting ourselves as if
We'd won, won something, been given
Permission to pretend we could start again,
Mulligan! One wanted to write one last
Happy poem, happy puppet, dancing a jig
Of rigged, rigid limbs to illustrate that love
Of a day, of people classed as family, of
Sumptuous food, turbulent spring clouds,
Occasional rays of warm sunshine, of
Anything and everything was possible.
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