Get me some sparkling Rosie he shouted
from the kitchen, no shirt on, overalls
one button unhooked, tan chest grey haired
chest looks down hands on the heavy cutting
board a slab board children born in that kitchen
maybe on that board.
The sparkling Rosie, he looks out the window through
the shit hung on the window glass birds, glass
Pierpoint opaque circles Christmas tree
mermaids, a Yorkshire terrier he never had
one as far as I know, so why one in glass?
Out there outside the window through
the shit snow on the ground, the asphalt though
black he laid it, he poured it on hot and still,
hot enough to melt the snow in afternoon sun
the day after the storm.
We always drink the sparkling Rosie for the
celebration, whatever celebration, there’s
a bottle gathering dust for the occasion.
Whenever one goes a new one comes. This
time it’s a grandkid not born on a kitchen
table in a hospital in Texas maybe he’ll never
see but sparkling Rosie baptizes the situation.
All’s sparkling, snow, snowmelt, glass
bubbles in the bottle, sweeter than
Chardonnay, cheaper too.
Michael Medeiros is a writer and photographer living in Amherst. His work has appeared in the Naugatuck River Review and jubilat. He is the founder of the Amherst Poetry Festival, and organizer of the Emily Dickinson Poetry Open Mic.