Banal

I wish I could say it were some choice Brunello.
Something or other di Montalcino
in these rolling hills of Tuscany.
But a poet’s golden token
only goes so far,
and what’s it worth
for bowtie noodles?

I didn’t have the nose to sip it sitting in my rotten sock drawer bitter as my broken esophagus.

A finer kind of whine
might sigh more sweetly
in refined pedantic meter.
A better brand than sea-sick indigestion—
but what is in a name?
The wine-dark Atlantic
divides my fart in twain.

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3 thoughts on “Banal

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