I had many topics cover this week, but somehow, this poem, written several years ago, on this Father’s Day, seemed to call to me.
Cognac brown, soft, consoling.
I tilt the decanter to the glass,
the heavy one with the scene
of downtown Baltimore
etched in black and real gold,
probably 24 carat.
Not to be put into the dishwasher,
though I do.
A golden bourbon in an exquisite glass.
And behind glass, leather-bound books,
a special occasion to touch.
Before I even know the title
I open, smell and riffle the pages,
A sound like bourbon, poured from the decanter.
Alexander Dumas, one of my dad’s favorites,
The Three Musketeers,
Athos, Porthos, not D’Artagnan.
Who is the third?
He would be disappointed
that I could name
I return to my chair,
book and bourbon in hand,
to find the third musketeer’s
And remember Fa sitting in our library,
bourbon in hand, reading,
perhaps The Three Musketeers.