Two Cups of Dandelion Wine

I wish it were only the pinot grigio
effect in the make-believe Waterford,
reflecting the ghost of my Nonno Frankie
in the eye of my mind pouring a cup
for Nonna Sophia out on the settee
behind their duplex on Roosevelt Street.

"We see what we want to see," Papa said
who often noted that Frankie and Sophie
on dog days of August into the night
drank dandelion wine in their garden
with cheese, focaccia, the birds and the bees
after which Papa always would say
how lovely Mama was under the moonlight.

I, the party of the second part,
having just read the decree nisi,
wonder when happiness turned into two
of these for one point five of that,
a Ford for a Chevy, whatever's satin,
and turntable with a diamond needle
about to terminate Pachelbel's Canon.