A Day Late…

via Daily Prompt: Wrinkle

When I was young, reckless, and unattached, I had a casual acquaintance, I’ll call her S, to whom I’d become quite attracted.  She was beautiful and intensely sexy, and she had been featured in a large department store’s clothing catalog.   We worked together for a time, but I considered her out of my league, so I allowed my natural shyness to prevent me from trying to speak to her apart from the occasional “Hello” or “How’s it going?” in passing.

One night after work, we both happened to be in the same bar, and magically, we began a tentative mutual flirtation.  My response to her opening move was to write the poem below. Yes, right then and there at the bar.  I’d hoped she would find it romantic.  I’m too much of a gentleman to tell the rest of the story, so I’ll let the poem speak for itself.

Better Whiskey

Gold in the glass,

dim bar lights glint

off crystalline cubes

and beveled edges;

my eyes drink first,

 

then my nose after

the clink and tinkle of

bouquet-releasing swirl,

slow flick of the wrist.

 

Proper enjoyment begins

with watching, wanting,

intense visualization:

cool glass on eager lips,

cold burning whiskey

over tongue and under

and down, like that.

 

I shudder down the initial

swallow of liquid smoke,

harsh as a teen’s first hit

off a cigarette and

twice as good.

 

But the best whiskey I ever drank

was not this good: you dip

a satin finger with artful nail

in and stir, slide it around

the rim to evoked a haunting ring

before raising it to my lips,

your splendid image inverted

in the depending drop, as if

all depends upon this moment.

 

Ahhh, the memories come rushing back.  Poems, like songs, are time machines, aren’t they?  Also long ago, I wrote another poem about barfly life, titled “Dirty Pool”.  But that’s a poem for another post, a tale for another time.

Yesterday, my friend Gypsy‘s post, a lovely & poignant poem titled “Whiskey“, awakened my memory of having written this poem about that heavenly beverage myself many years ago and provoked me to want to post it.  Alas, it was one of those really busy days in court, so I was unable to do so then.  And Gypsy, I promise that’s the original title and NOT an attempt to imply my poem is better than yours.  It’s not.

Some of you may’ve noticed a new wrinkle to my post today:  I didn’t include a word count or reading time.  Recently, a very talented writer, a blogger whose wisdom I trust, offered me a critique.  She said that starting my post with that information screams, “This isn’t worth reading but it won’t take you long.”  That had never occurred to me, and I’m grateful she pointed it out, so I’m going to try a few posts without that header and see how it works.  What do y’all think?