Wine Merchant

In the market stall,

he sits on a stool,

wearing a red plaid shirt,

trucker cap, and blue shorts,

hawking locally made wines,

extolling this and that one,

a cut young man with eyes like wells—

if he leaned back against a wall,

you could jump in them and dive down

to another hemisphere’s dawn—

and a handsome face adorned

with blond scruff—adored wine-god

of a more recent vintage—

and from this point of vantage,

I’d say that what he pours

I’d drink and ask for more.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper


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