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