Carrying milk, butter
Bread and orange juice
Home from the Gas n’ Go
Thinking about getting
Some beer or maybe
A jug of cheap red wine
At Al’s Liquor.
“Nearly Always Open” was
His motto and Sanji, who
Bought the place in oh five
Also got Al’s creative
Marketing.
Wine or beer
Beer or wine?
Only enough cash
For one of those
American choices.
The muse needs fueling
Tonight and she’s calling
For more than spaghetti
With a jar of Ragu.
Not that it matters.
Standing here in front
Of Al’s, looking down
The alley at a stack
Of boxes from the flower
Shop next door. Boxes
Punctured by even rows
Of round holes, so the flowers
Can breathe as they make
A journey and I suppose
Breathing matters as much
To roses as it does to me.
How about an interval
Dedicated to the overused
Rose, flower of love
Friendship, thorny sorrow
And bleeding misery?
No that doesn’t matter
It’s just another distraction
As I avoid revealing my
Decision on the beer
Or wine question. Wine.
A jug of Gallo’s finest
Too sweet but perfect
In its own unassuming
Way. And now home.
She won’t be here tonight
Or on any other night. But
That only matters as much
As I let it. When my meal
Is done and my wine takes
Hold and my keyboard
Is full of juice
Only the real
Stuff will make itself known
As the hours wear on
As the night grows thin.
What matters most?
It all matters, I suppose.
Or nothing matters much
At all.
