When skies drizzle over Baltimore, 
I taste bourbon in the air, and know
my parents are drinking Manhattanstwo 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.
					
				- 
		Issue 54
- 
		Editor's Note
- 
		Poetry
- 
		Fiction
- 
		Book Review- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
 by Joseph Millar
 
- David Rigsbee reviews Blue Rust
 
				

