The Last Sip

Warm and fragrant eggnog latté
slips down my throat,
Nutmeg satisfies so sweetly
this nod for simple reflection.

An entourage of features
sally forth before my repose,
A full regalia of nations
and their generations,
coexisting within this faux pax
and sky lit edifice with a modicum of normalcy
. . . . . while outside
horsemen hold snorting visionaries at bay.

To my right a bill board is alive
with flashing magic and fashion.
A curious smile balances on my lips
for having been propelled into the eventual
with the turn of my head,
and staring at the mode o' day rotation
. . . . . somehow
my mind wonders to the elfin mystique
of Audrey Hepburn on the cover of Life Magazine.

I hate the last sip of my tepid latté,
And heave a regretful sigh
   As the milkman in dress whites and centered cap,
   Presses a single chime to the doorbell . . .
   The icy bottles having been deposited on the porch.

The snappy refrain of the March of the Toreadors
calls in hushed tones from my book bag,
and with the adept acuity of modern man
I flip open my line of communications.
Tossing my reflections along with the paper cup
I merge back into the parade,

But my step hides a lingering sadness
. . . . A realization of the last generation
To snap an honest bottle cap.



jeanne rené 11/04