Inebriation
She left me
in the liquid warehouse
to find the one true wine.
She traveled the concrete paths,
the aisles towering
with breakable glass and wooden barrels.
When I found her,
she was slumped on the hard, gray floor
by her basket, loaded with bottles.
She was muttering:
“Middle Sister, take a Stag Leap.
Unharness the Wild Horse in Castle Rock,
Geyser Peak, or Oyster Bay.
My Black Stallion wears Nine Hats on Chalk Hill,
has a Yellow Tail and goes Barefoot.”
“Have you been drinking?” I asked.
“I’m a Smoking Loon whose only begun
to sample the delectable labels,”
she said, and continued rambling:
“The Naked Grape met Seven Deadly Zins
on his Stomping Ground.
One sin, er zin, involved a Menage á Trois,
even though he loved a certain Lady La Femme.”
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