I didn’t wait for time to smooth or dull.
I opened a blonde wine for the draft of amnesia.

A translucent bottle to let light in. A glass to swivel in my hand.
To rub the rim with my index finger for music that is moaning.

I attended his funeral today. The bright hills of Staten Island.
But, as scheduled, we’re still having dinner together tonight.

I didn’t wait for time. A dark bottle next. The darkest table
in the back of Mitali Restaurant: the Indian word for friendship.

The stunned feeling of warmth to course through my whole body.
Happy reunion. A refracting glass to swivel the light. Music droning.

After the wonderful Samosa, the Poori bread, the Keema Nan.
I drank to his name, his name, and wove home to my family.