Wait Gate

Begin for more pronunciation of
Peace. More than twoSided.
Opening bottles, spill out wine,
Rack pages, all handwritten, Crafted.
After work, try finding sense, the fixed.

Dismiss what has you miffed.

And if at that bench, in the park, I’m at
Loss, then I decide in whim’d grin.
This has to be re-blended. Nothing
On plate seduces, motivates.
That’s what has me irate.
Not negotiating with yields of fate.
Making gourmet for scraps on plate.
Cork in, but lost with possible taste dates.