Oh, I wish we were three again:
Phyllis and her daughters,
sitting around that kitchen table,
steam from our coffee cups
braiding up with our cigarette smoke
to the ceiling,
Oh, I wish we were there again
in that little blue and white house
with the lace curtain over the window
cut from my sister’s wedding dress,
after the divorce,
for her to scratch off a lotto ticket —
winning just enough for a new muffler
for the undead Dodge parked outside.
For her to lean in, over the
salt and pepper shakers,
a conspirator once more, to say,
“When shall we three meet again?”
For her daughters to catch her eye,
for us to cackle like hell.
Of this I’m sure: we’ll meet again,
when this hurly-burly’s done.