Old Vine Poem by Adam Watson

That vintage bottle of Suicide,
acquired abroad or gifted, discreetly
saved for such occasions
as we measure these moments
to imbibe. Stillness, with time,
turns, and, so, is left…

lightly acidic and formally bitter,
but that is really an incompatible speculation
considering filtered dregs compile as ooze.

And so, the bottle rests, hidden in the heart
of the house, a softer place
in the return of the mind where sips
are meted out with anticipation…
toasting to the hope enough remains
to spill upon our grave.