On Reading Tea Leaves

in a Bottomless Glass

They laughed at our wineglasses---

ancient stems that carried us

through corduroy bell-bottoms

and campouts on the beach---

past the sound of the corner phonograph

playing Beetles forty-fives.

We flew on faith--

white lace sells cheap

when the glass is full.

Harder to cling

to the promise of an empty glass

where nothing remains

but the dregs of dime store wine

and the endless busyness of despair.

(Image: Van Gogh: The Night Cafe 1888.)