He raises an empty martini glass

as if he could orchestrate the gin and vermouth 

back into existence. 

Turns the knob so that we feel

Sinatra’s voice fill the notches of old pine. 

At the start of verse one, 
        he stands, unevenly 

        forcing escape 

        from the worn floral rocker.

        We hold our breath with 

        each muddled shuffle and tipsy

        step en route to replenish his spirits. 

At the start of verse two,

        orangy-freckled &

        blue-veined hands beckon

        for a partner, any partner. 

        The crystal stem seems to be

        the perfect match for his permanently

        bent inward Celtic hands. Nothing has ever

        fit there more seamlessly, more assuredly.

        Gram’s golden 
        wedding portrait, on the 
        brick mantel, looks on. 

At the start of verse three,

        he is passing off partners

        left and right 

        and just for a singular moment

        we are flyin’ to the moon 

        & feelin so young
        & doin it our way

        & dancin through the streets of New York, New York. 

At the start of verse four, 

        he’s fallen. 

        Broken glass cuts through 

        time and space and music and 

        silhouettes his drunken stupor.

        Oh, what thorn encrusted love

        flows through our bloodline.

At the end of the song, 

        Sinatra’s voice begins to fade
        but we must start an age old 

        dance of our own: clean the chaos.
        Grab your instrument of choice
        and sweep & sweep & sweep
        under the rug, beneath the floorboards,
        deep into the soil and pendulum like

        pits of your stomach.

  Everything is fine, 
        everything is fine, everything is fine.