A Toast

by Michael Anschutz

To my God hampered boys

you lovely as the moon and

twice as cratered

Sleeping in your grandpa’s loam

finding all the wrong beds

making them your stage.

For you whose only seasoning

is borrowed thyme

Who ask for a boat and

get Midwest rivers- never the Seine.

For you:

The poppies bred to outlive their admirers

who are all petals

knowing no opium, no oblivion.

The boys who find monsters in the closet

and make their arms long enough to hold them.

Yes, in your name,

I visit the gypsy in my attic

We drink all the wine and

With laughless chuckle toast:

“While we still have lips to stain.”