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.)