Wine Breath

Wine Breath

I’m secondhand drunk again. My head in your lap,

the earthy scent of discount Pinot Noir

unravels from your lips like spools of yarn

tumbling off of your tongue. 
                                           You slowly recap

your day, the lilting rhythm of your speech

as hypnotizing as Nana’s needles clacking

when she would knit at night, her fingers speaking

lovely secrets to the wooly yarn at each

and every stitch. 
                          It means a different sort

of thing to everyone: To the woman next door,

the smell of stale Cabernet is warning more

than welcome, and she will spend the evening hours

delicately avoiding his probing eye

like she would do in middle school when the teacher

asked her a question. 
                               To the man at the bar,

the busty girl’s red-wine scent supplies

the courage he could not deign to conjure up

when she was sober -- he asks her where she works.

To me tonight, your wine-clad words

cover me like a blanket, the empty cup

beside the couch a libation poured out to nights

of domestic quiet. 
                          And I will drink it in

like thirsty earth, secondhand drunk again

on your intoxicating scent of the night.