Mid-century, the last one, the holidays minimized
misdeeds by limiting the fare: maybe
men and women could quaff a martini,
make out under the eaves of misadventure,
murmur promises they never intended to make.

Merry this and happy that, much
merriment along the way to the movies.
Meanwhile, the cement’s drying, made
matter-of-fact by time and many
marriages—snail to lime to mash.

Mark my words: we celebrated madness,
moderated anything remotely normal, minded
Monday’s hold over what felt mapped,
manufactured, the over-the-top Mardi Gras
manners practiced just before Mass.

Mean lines appeared in our faces, mild
marks of the stress of making
mediocre bargains of every meal.
Meager was a friend, a memory
meeting us on its way out of the mirror.