…but there is Champagne,
always Champagne,
even in the leanest times,
someone,
somewhere,
has a bottle stowed away
because even a trapeze artist
sometimes needs a lift of the spirit.
Even the Lion Disagreer,
and the Bearded Nonesuch,
neither of whom drink a drop,
feel the heliumating rise of the heart
when the Champagne pops,
like a flashbulb celebrating a radiant 1930s film star,
like a fusilade of fireworks,
like a regimental 21-thousand gun salute,
when the boyant orbs within make their excited upward rush,
even those who don’t like champagne
(if pure palate pleasure were the point,
wouldn’t we just chill some Lillet?)–
even for them,
they recognize that this is one drink which is just like
their Big Top home:
Bubbling, exploding out from containment,
overflowing,
too soon gone,
leaving intoxication,
and warmly-blurred foreveries
in its wake.
