I can't get off
the rollercoaster of what is happening.
I can't get off the couch cushions
filled with polyurethane.
Not even to cheers the news
I've been avoiding
with another flute of stylish Charlemagne.
The collarette is thin,
but I don't complain.
Even after all those bad New Year's Eve dates:
awkward midnight kisses
vinified to sugarcane.
Even after ten years in the cellar,
I'm afraid I won't like the taste
of what is corked inside me
disgorged like hurricane.
The glass is now perspiring,
raindrops on my windowpanes.
The nights I had to watch and wait;
I had myself to entertain.
No, no, this time I will abstain.
Too unpredictable,
Le vin du Diable,
glass of Champagne.
©2024 | K.F. Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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