Empty Bottles by Megan Windom

Empty Bottles by Megan Windom

It had been a long time since I’d seen her

She called me, saying she was back in town.

For her it seemed right that I should pull down

a bottle of wine in which we could drown

in yesterdays that had become a blur.

After gaining a new empty bottle

We loitered over recent years, lonely

weekends I spent at home, and her only

experience with a lover. Cozy,

we slowed the conversational throttle.

There’s a comfort in our time together.

A likeness of mind that seems to outlast

the changes in our lives. Our long shared past

bringing laughter over politics, cast

by our views in apparent fair weather.

Almost as an afterthought she tells me

news she almost forgot. Flashing a smile,

she moves her hands in a flourishing style

that seems to uplift her further while

surrounded by her own glorious sea.

In spite of the sameness I now expect,

I realize the person here’s a strager.

Jealousy stirring up the new danger

of a boiling, unwanted anger.

I dismiss myself to dodge the effect.

As I slip outside, she whispers my name

softly. She offers me a brief embrace,

I indulge then move away from her place.

The threads uniting us like fragile lace.

The door locks. I know it won’t be the same.

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The Good News by David Yezzi

                        A friend calls, so I ask him to stop by.

We sip old Scotch, the good stuff, order in,

some Indian – no frills too fine for him

or me, particularly since it’s been

                                                ages since we made the time.

                        Two drinks in, we’ve caught up on our plans.

I’ve sleepwalked through the last few years by rote;

he’s had a nasty rough patch, quote unquote,

on the home front. So, we commiserate,

                                                cupping our lowballs in our hands.

                        It’s great to see him, good to have a friend

who feels the same as you about his lot –

that, while some grass is greener, your small plot

is crudely arable, and though you’re not

                                                so young, it’s still not quite the end.

                        As if remembering then, he spills his news.

Though I was pretty lit, I swear it’s true,

it was as if a gold glow filled the room

and shone on him, a sun-shaft piercing through

                                                dense clouds, behind which swept long views.

                        In that rich light, he looked not like my friend

but some acquaintance brushed by on the train.

Had his good fortune kept me from the same,

I had to wonder, a zero-sum game

                                                that gave the night its early end?

                        Nothing strange.  Our drinks were done, that’s all.

We haven’t spoken since.  By morning, I

couldn’t remember half of what the guy

has said, just his good news, my slurred goodbye,

                                                the click of the latch, the quiet hall.