The weekend
The weekend
We should have held hands and laughed
on the deck, even in our winter coats.
We should have brought the speakers outside,
turned them up loud enough
for the neighbors to hear.
If I danced by myself, it is only because
the cold makes your knees ache.
I should have tried my hand at mixing a Manhattan,
pulled out the bartenders guide our son gave you,
100 And 1 Bourbons,
before he died in his kitchen.
I should have served them in martini glasses
with real Maraschino cherries that cost $19 a jar.
We should have sat in plastic wicker chairs,
the tips of our shoes touching under the table.
We should have done that.
Instead, we sat in separate rooms,
stone markers to memories
of times when he was young and
his shirt was never quite tucked in.
