Cave Painting Poem by Val Morehouse

In dim coolness, underground,
punctuated by the dropp and whine of the elevator
I cut open boxes and stock tomorrow’s shelves.

One by one each bottle stands revealed,
shoulders bare and smooth as a
young woman dressed for some lavish debut.

Amid cobwebs, and dirt, and the chalky smell of cement
the gleaming varietals parade their silky promise,
and brush walls of this rough basement with
the ripe russet of harvest.