Sanguine in our family
is inextricably tied to cocktail hour.
"Loaded" seems to manage things
when honest comes with too much noise.
Uzis pointed at our issues.
Goblets filled with "leave me be."
The scent of wine upon a cork:
a bunker in a time of war.
We don’t have cellars of fancy brands.
The taste test is defined by need.
Walking in the door at night
with failure on our fallow breath.
Three hours later, lions tamed--
we burst from booths like Superman.
A jigger is our muddy milk--
the ipecac of modern life.
Rescue is a lavatory
shaking in a crashing plane.
Its touch is like those sculptured nails--
dimensions of an even life.
Colorful, with grace in tact,
they do not know a real moon.
The weak massage of shoe-shined
manners comments on a centerpiece.
Plastic clowns of laughter reign,
dromedaries in a desert,
camouflaging ways we care
and feelings that we cannot feel.
A lime becomes a hymnal squeezed,
its acid juice, convenient art.
Escape we worship faithfully
like sleeping pills for restless nights.
They keep our avocados green
when life would turn them very dark.