Even with that hole in your head
you still catch my eye, lying supinely
on your side, feet glowing red
kissed by your claret companion.
I don’t envy your future, though,
headed to the heap, some distant
landfill, where gulls will raise a row
over lesser treasures than you.
Can’t help but wonder from where you came
—likely Portugal or Spain—and who
else but me feels the same
about your family’s tomorrow?
You’re on the way out: that’s a given.
Screw tops are screwing you out
of your honorable living.
Lighter, easy, and most of all, cheaper.
No heft required, no special tool,
no grunting, straining, or contraptions
that make you feel like a fool
puzzling out how to work them.
Yet to uncork a bottle to get at the wine
seems natural as breathing, the way
God intended from the dawn of time,
long ere the Market became divine.