A bottle will not bounce,in case you wondered.
Not at Walmart anyway,
aisle 3, cheap wine
that wasn't such a waste
that I felt guilty at the slip.
It had to be reported
to the check-out girl, of course.
You wouldn't want some idiot
to send a child to fetch
Aunt Mamie's fav'rite Cabernet,
instead returning rather wet
and with a smell of Zinfandel
upon his summer uniform:
t-shirt and shorts, and flip-flops
not quite thick enough to keep
a shard of glass from making contact
with his foot. I spoke up quickly,
though; no blood was spilled.
Deciding that a slightly better brand
was worth the trip and trouble,
I then announced the breakage,
only pseudo-helpful, since it fell
from my own hand upon the polished floor.
It never crossed my mind to offer
payment, as it wasn't quite yet mine.
But walking to the car, I smiled
and thought of all these things, and knew
exactly who would see the drop,
the shattering, the waste, as heaven's sign
my lips should never, ever taste that wicked wine.
I'll raise a toast of better vintage
(only slightly) after showering,
with thanks and glass both lifted high
to heaven, quite convinced that choice of beverage
is but one of many choices
that are no one's business but my own.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016
