At Nora’s first post-divorce Labor Day bash
there’s a fluster and a fuss and a fidget
in the fuchsia-bells. “Two fingers of sour mash,
a maraschino cherry.” “So the digit’s
still a unit of measurement?” “While midgets
continue to demand a slice of the cake.”
“A vibrator, you know, that kind of widget.”
Now a ruby-throated hummingbird remakes
itself as it rolls on through mid-forest brake.
“I’m guessing she’s had a neck-lift and lipo.”
“You know I still can’t help but think of the Wake
as the apogee, you know, of the typo.”
Like an engine rolling on after a crash,
long after whatever it was made a splash.