Beat.  No drum.  How does that work–

with syllable, talk.. people watch,  I continue, even

if I have nothing prepared.  Quiet everything around

me.  More wine.. I’m affected,

honestly.  Blend, Bordeaux, my yielding, more

so.  Obsessing in war woes; mediate over chess,

soup stress.  Ravenous roam, repaint my home.

By different rhythm bitten; fit in fission, only with

permission; interrogated by man with tie crumbs–

will he be mad if I laugh?

I don’t care what editors think.. I’m sipping more

Meritage.  Camera pan left.. glass empty.  Who me–

Ran over 5 miles, like I should, but I miss the calories.

SO I pour another glass.  It’s wine.  Big deal.  Could be

whisky.  But who drinks whisky?  Not writers.  Right?