The server comes by, says “Hi, my name is…is there Anything I can get you, Miss?” Hands me the wine list. “Give me a second,
White, red Rosé, Sweet or bubbly? This is sort of troubling.
Can’t go with the white, Taste’s too light- So bright and uppity, Feels like committing To nothing. What if the entrée’s Spicy? The acid in the white Will heighten the spice Higher than my liking.
Could always go With a Moscato or Riesling But the sweet’s so sweet It feels false and unappealing. Other people Drinking the syrup Seem happy. Maybe what I want Is something dark and heavy. A Cabernet… Flavor and Full body Independent taste Despite whatever's sitting on My plate. I really like Alfredo. Do you think that it could Hold it’s own? How are we supposed to know? If there’s no dish yet How do you pick the wine? The perfect balance is so Hard to find.
Every choice you make is A dozen that you didn’t And each one leads To a different Experience. If I don’t know who I am And what I like How can I possibly
Choose the pair That’s right?
Forget it. Do it all another night.
Server is back. I look up from The menu To my blind Date.
I want to make babies And turn them into functioning Useful Creative And loving adults That will endure and Rehabilitate the world. I want to be able to give them The Tools to do so. Or at least the resources to find those tools. But I'd also like someone to do that for me.
I am coloring in the colorless half-sleeve tattoo he once got by trading in his own guitar. He’s borrowed a few acoustics since then and one electric, but they never stay in tune. And the acoustic strings always stretch Too far from the fretboard: leaving blisters.