A glass of wine,
malt whisky,
Makers’ Mark—
whatever you find
in the glass,
whatever the shape 
of the glass—
wrong shape is almost
better
for the ritual,
keeping it fresh.
You invent
a future.
Either way, 
it slides down
and emanates
as wisdom
and, goddammit,
the gods descend,
perch on your shoulders,
whisper into your ears 
about brilliance,
future,
laurel leaves,
and by now 
you are grinning
ear-to-ear,
and buying drinks
for your friends—
even the ones you don’t know—
and the meaning of the Universe
comes clear.
And you are the goddamn benefactress
of everyman,
including the cute, young couple
over there
for whom
you are going to pay for dinner
(a surprise).
And the rain is pouring
down 
like a dirge in a Jacques Prévert poem—
Il pleut dans ma coeur …—
but not in yours.
No, you will beat the slump,
jump over the French
in a good old American
frog jump.
Drink the wine,
the vine.
Transform it all.
Head home 
across the water-soaked Oklahoma road,
across the planet
in winter
with a blessing on 
your lips
and a great love 
for all
your brothers and sisters,
whole at last.
And thankful
as the music
turns to talk,
turns to music, 
and skimpy sound
from the drinks 
at the table nearby
draws you 
into the maelstrom
that is mankind,
packs you back
into the bank 
of your origination,
makes you
whole.