This isn’t a drinking song
nor a song about drinking
but a song written while drinking,
today, for no good reason.
Wine has an agenda;
try to appreciate what is so
often a disappointment: acrid
oak leaf, bottom of a barrel,
piney creosote that stains your
teeth, the napkin, tablecloth.
Or sticky white wine
whose names—liebfraumilch,
reisling, gewurtztraminer,
speak of alpine swoops through
the grape fields.
Wine is to impress
women with that bottle under
your arm, the slow waltz to dinner, bed.
But today, whiskey.
Old-fashioned,the man said, you’re old fashioned.
Like a muddler of gin, a shot of rye,
whiskey means you are serious.
It has the coat of a smoky wolf,
denned in the dark pocket of your soul, the
edge of depression, bucket of remorse.
A whiskey cocktail, bitters and sweet,
poured by a heavy-handed God:
a block of cool medicine
to tip you back in your chair.
Breathe.
So take a seat, pal. You got
some catching up to do.