Wine Cork
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.
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