Old Money, no. 11

The night in all its splendor fell, but it was

             more or a less a dampness in his shoes.

Lake-water swilled around the boat,

            the motor silent, waves tickling its

   wooden belly, the curve of her mouth,

                        hand trailing mist      as soft night air

tumbled past, murmuring good-byes

to the chewed paper moon.

A lost evening, gin beneath flat tonic, Grandmumsy’s

    ashes in a vase above the fireplace

            along with the dog’s, the cat’s, all who

remained to be buried

            God of capitalism invoked

                    at dinner, when the youngest grandson said

                   he would not share his cupcake      All mine

The family laughed and clapped

He’s going to make it in this world.