Karen Moulton – Happy Hour, August 2011

Happy Hour
On the deck,
warm diagonals
slash brown boards
in colorful angles,
as we sip
our cocktails:
yours amber,
mine clear.

Late afternoon
listening to Neil Young,
his, the only angst
in the atmosphere
on this summer day.
The clinking sound
of ice against glass
prompts me to action;
I refresh our drinks.
Two months times
two summers of bliss,
until too soon,
disease casts its shadow
upon our happy hour,
causing your glass
to tumble and break,
shattering our lives,
leaving jagged shards of it,
tiny bits of memory
that sparkle like crystals,
that wedge into my flesh,
pricking my psyche
with the past.