Postmortem in Pub Celeste

How we all died is ripe gossip: Boredom perhaps, 
or trying to save a drowning toddler, or tearfully 
drowning in Vesper Martinis with valium chasers. 
One comeuppance was an act of infidelity, sordid sex.  
Our mourning husbands who said they could never live 
without us, for a while wake alone, some on their side 
of the bed for a long while. We, who were never angels, 
watch on their shoulders though their grief is not ours. 

In Pub Celeste everyone has eternity and regrets
and do miss the children very, very much. 
At our book club, we sip Pinot Divines, Paradiso
Mojitos, or craft concoctions of Soul Brew.
When the book’s plot plods and the heroine’s vibrator 
juices out, we banter and laugh. It’s not so bad.