Years after

we marched

into the economy

with Molière and our cellos

We gather

to count sons and daughters

that grew from the ripening ova

we carried to jazz dance class

to envy the bangled ones—

who gulp margaritas, laugh

about bargains in Hong Kong

to sip Belgian ale

and not think of staplers—

thoughts we keep batting like gnats

on that resplendent river,

the shining we'd seen

as we pondered

that fine, looming

world to be conquered, bending

its way through bright canyons,

the river to come