The uncorked bottle waiting
to lead us into five uneven
glasses of Bordeaux because
you are you and I am nothing
but the cheapest kind of date
still able to hold his own if
only given a chance to show
I know the difference between
a Pauillac and a Margaux
as each decants into a steeper
plumminess hinting at chewy
game, you who could care
less what grapes are grown
on which side of the river—
a jug of Gallo, a box of Rosé
really all the same, never mind
the vintage just so long as it
pleasures us, my face already
flushed, my eyes past tipsy
zooming in on the moist end
of the cork set down where
you last fingered it, oblivious
as to whether a château has
Grand Cru status or not, happy
to know that you can trust
my taste, that if I say “traces
of lead, wild grass on the nose,”
your tongue will find its way
into my mouth, the bottle
drained to its sulfitic dregs.