Sommelier

Why become the lush.

 It’s becoming quotidian.

No money is to be made of it.

 

You will disgorge

the fermented beverage

in front of

the sommelier

who can’t save you.

 

Sullen will be your disposition,

any explanation intractable.

Eventually, complete morose.

 

I will put on a pot of black coffee.

You will rebuff me for it.

I love you

despite myself.

 

© emmett wheatfall