Something, Someone

The
lingering scent
of
the dainty cigarillo
drenched
in kahlua
puts me
in a different
mindset.

I’m
warm
with a
familiar feeling
of
something—
someone.

Exactly what
I do not
know.

But as I light
and slowly
take in a deep
and prolonged
taste
I sit back
against my spider-webbed
front porch,
feel the cool cement
against my thighs
and watch
as the locals
go about their evenings
as the sun begins
to set—
and just a touch
of fall has made
itself known.

I do not
yearn
or need
for another
to be
near me.

Damn–
finished another.

So I get
just one more—
because they
came in a
four-pack.

I repeat
the ritual,
this time
with a glass
of blended
Spanish loveliness
by my side.

Now I’m
cheating
on the cigarillo,
poor baby.
I should stop
right there.

But alas
I sip
and taste deeply
well into the
evening—
enough for a
hoarse rawness
to flood my
voice when
I awake.
A reminder
of what,
or whom—

No answer still.

A Man and a Woman

A man and a woman
walked into my work
to try some wine.

The normal
semi-white trash
duo.

Hi guys, would you like to do
some tasting today?

He sported
a dripping forehead
with Buddy Holly glasses,
a leather vest,
and a plethora
of Disney characters
tattooed on
either side
of his Wonderbread loaf-sized
biceps.

She was
a fifty-something-
fake-pomegranate
redheaded-butterball
with
kind eyes—
hurt took
precedent behind
the algae- green tinge.

A sip here and there.
This is the Viognier, I tell them.

The pained ocean eyes
needed to let me
know
this was a good weekend—
one full of happiness
and relaxation.

Lies I can tell
she is trying to
convince
herself of.
The last
20 months she has
been grieving over the
suicide of her 17 year-old daughter.

Let us move on to the Chardonnay;
How was the last one?

The poor thing
left no note,
just herself
hanging
in her locked room.

She choked back
the salty waters
when recalling
how she
and her oldest
had to unhinge the door
to get inside,
only
too
late.

Shall we go on to the Pinot Noir?

To cope with
her pain
she now counsels
other
survivors of
suicide
and attends
meetings
daily.
It has
become her
life.

Apparently
her oldest
doesn’t grieve
in the same way
and refuses
to deal
at all
with the death
of her sister.

What reds do you normally drink?
Oh I see, you like big tannic Cabernets, interesting.
I myself love a good Bordeaux blend.

I wonder
what is the
best way
to grieve
with the death
of someone
so young—

So obviously lost
and alone
and naïve to
the glories and
insurmountable splendor
that the world
would have
offered her
if she had only
stuck it out
a little longer.

Shall we finish with the blend?
It’s mostly Syrah, a favorite of mine.

During all of this,
I nod, and
feel the pain
with her—
trying to
console the
now obviously glassy eyes.

Mr. Trendy tats
acts aloof—
an inheritance baby
that is openly glad
he has more money
than God to burn
and yet
he can’t find
a full shirt
to cover
his uncooked cinnamon roll bulges.

Well guys, any favorites today?

Life fucking hurts sometimes.
I hurt
for those kind eyes—
devastated on an
inconceivable level.

So I give her a discount
on the wine Trendy
buys for her.
She’s going
to need it.

Take care of yourself.