Dan Cuddy

He Who Loves Grape Juice

no poem today 
why? 
pickled, fried 
last night 
one of those 
never empty wine glasses 
great dinner 
great talk 
but who can remember? 
oh, once or twice a year 
Bacchus reigns 
converses about the past 
the characters that are shadows 
so many dead 
diabetes 
drugs 
cancer 
oh just a list of common afflictions 
but the characters 
that saw sunrises, midnight moons 
Paris 
the mirror in the Charles Village Pub 
the interior of a deep philosophic mind 
making illegible notes to itself 
the poet whose best work 
was published after her death 
we toasted them all 
again and again 
luckily my wife drove home 
traffic patterns were askew 
for me 
and so this morning 
unsympathetic for sure 
few tolerate overindulgence 
though the wines of the world flowed 
from Spain to New Zealand 
we helped diverse economies 
with our indulgence 
but this morning 
who really wants to type words 
the sound of typing magnified 
in the pickled raw mind 
the typing arm attached 
to the arm of another arm 
and that to that of a hammer 
and so this morning 
feels like a vampire 
that didn’t escape the sun 
or the stake 
how shriveled raisins are 
and the reasons 
for overindulgence