Corked

We queue in bright November sun,
outside Town Hall,
beaming our innocence.
That night, we take
a savored bottle from the fridge,
chill two fluted glasses,
keep the bottle closed
and wait.
At eight, my daughter texts:
I’m worried, and I respond:
It’s early, Dear,
the states will soon turn blue.
At ten, she texts again: 
When will it be
not early?  
I wonder too,
all that day, and the next,
while the champagne
stays under pressure.