Everlasting May
You raise two fingers to your wrinkled cheek
and smile, asleep, that artful, coy smile
you must have flashed when you were young,
eighteen or so, and I recall the story that you told
about the month those years ago,
a time that must have seemed would never end,
when you and Irma, your best friend,
put down a bet you said was just for play:
Who would date the most that month of May?
Along you went, coquettes, the two of you,
head to head throughout those days,
grabbing hearts and highballs all
along the way, not really caring
who might win the bet—at least that’s
what you each kept claiming, truth or lie—
still friends as the month approached its end.
And then, on the thirty-first, it looked
as if the bet would be a push,
for both of you had dated Bill and Mike and
Unc and Phil until your numbers matched, a tie.
But wait, there’s Johnny Beau,
who wants to see you Sunday eve,
a play from eight till ten,
and so you win the wager
with your thirty-second date
that everlasting May.
I hope, my mother,
you are dreaming back that day.