Aperitifs on Beacon Hill

Jane, you once wore designer jeans
and giggled at pedigreed boys,
chasing mutts on Boston Common
before you went home for your tea
while those who knew how to swagger,
lit up their unfiltered Camels,
talked baseball and took their chances
with pop-the-fly girls after dark.

Soon baccalaureate masses
paved the way for new statistics
with greenbacks in sharkskin wallets
the color of new ambitions
when we preened the top dog at lunch
but knew by the end of the meal
we'd be in the water closet,
unpocketing mouthwash vials.

Both of each other's cheeks we kiss
underneath the viscum album
blush more from the Moët, My Dear,
in one more flute by the fire
next to our plastic Christmas tree
while bedsheets might as well be snow,
no matter what the temperature is
from the logs in our Jøtul stove.