On Wine

Though I may scent black cherry,

Violets or truffles in the nose,

Make my companions weary

Praising the bull’s blood that I chose,

Though it courses through my heart

And makes me brave (but rarely true),

And is the consummated art

Of all that tastebuds can construe,

Though I forget, I won’t deny:

The peroration to all this,

When the radiant glass is dry,

Is one expensive piss.

Suzanne Doyle

© 1992 Suzanne J. Doyle.  Used by permission.