Here’s to the two blind O’s in booze
and the sole O in blackout,
the O’s in O Lord, drinking solo, and sinking so low,
the long O in lonely,
the zero in loaded, lost, and long ago.
Let’s raise a glass to glass, as clear as air,
shot through with stolen color,
its only soul the mirror of another,
so open-mouthed, it almost isn’t there.
O where O where?
Let’s drink to the little dog gone,
to Nemo in No Man’s Land,
to the pockets of the poor,
to the shadow of a ghost of a hole in an unknown omission,
to the ocean into which all rivers flow.
So much for worry, whippoorwills, and woe.
Here’s to the empty, echoing O in lovely,
two glassy Ohs in the eyes
of Marilyn Monroe,
to those whom no one ever wholly knows.
May I propose a toast to not knowing,
to not growing old,
to not staying but going.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rose Kelleher
would be pleased to hear from you.