Sips of Yesterday

I indulge myself occasionally, savoring the gin

mixed with light, airy tonic. I add a lime, losing it

beneath ice cubes, hollow and cool, impaled by the vibrant tip

of a cocktail straw. It's a different ritual alone, with a novel at the bar,

past the days of youthful revels. A dash of grenadine would perfect it.

//

Youth was a lively jig through diner booths, nudging siblings

for bites of gooey mac 'n cheese and limp fries. It was the ever-ignored side salads,

beaded cups sweating cold, adorned with cartoon bears and brimming

with Shirley Temples. Tart and bold. Cherry bright. I'd wager a dollar

I could twist a soaked stem into a knot with just my tongue. That was my party piece.

//

In my current read, Shirley Temple admits her faults.

Tears aren't charming, not at three, not when you can out-dance

the grown-up stars of Baby Burlesks. So they confine her

to a sound booth. They provide a block of ice for a seat and she perches,

a cherry perched atop. And then, back to dancing.

//

My brothers hoard crumpled candy wrappers in their drawers. They down

milk by the gallon, never pausing to check the fat content. I stopped

when I outgrew my favorite top. Yet, they still enjoy Dirty Shirleys and flick

their straw wrappers across dimly lit bar tables, their tongues stained crimson.

I succumb to temptation. I steal a sip. Now, all I taste is the sweetness, on this side of youth.

//

The young starlet lost her role when she couldn't shed the childlike roundness.

She had to sport dentures to cover her gaps as she grew.

She endured the prods, the tweaks, the giggles, then rejection.

She earned those big shots money, and they scrimped on her share. They even

claimed her name and splashed it over ice. Always with a cherry on top.