~JAMES R. WHITLEY~

NIGHTS OF GIN AND ASHES

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It all started off so raffiné: lavender orchid martinis
after work, apéritifs before dinner, chilled cabernet with
the meal itself. Then me, on airplanes and trains, switch-
ing seats to avoid pink elephants, and you, in sheer bikinis

making snow angels in the yard, our neighbors gawking,
gossiping about the lushes next door indulging every vice,
as if our only concern were replenishing the crushed ice
melting in our cracked tumblers. I hear mom, squawking

still about how we should buckle down and go straight, 
and your father, always pissed at me, his only daughter
always sloshed. And now, after the zinfandel, brandy and 
sangria—sun hanging overhead like a bloodshot eye—faith
fills me, as gin fills my glass, overpowering the tonic water,
as I wait on this worn barstool for a round with you again.
 
 

© by James R. Whitley