that just happens to be National Wine Day
Again I sip the syrah,
all smoky and black cherryish
and try not to wish
it were sauvignon blanc
all pucker and grass.
But no. Each sip suggests
dark violet. Black hue.
And each sip I think,
well, it’s nice, but
oh for a hint of grapefruit,
nettle, passion fruit.
But the syrah is like
a lover who stands
in the center of the room
and slowly unzips his pants,
then waits. He knows
that thirst is a fact.
He’s ready now, but
the rising heat doesn’t
bother him at all.
He is not in any hurry.