I age my poems
in dark musty cellar
'till they mellow and moan
begging to be brought to light

I bury them there
in oaken casks, stained purple
flavoring them full of
funky terroir

Abandoned on a shelf in
old green glass
imprisoned by cork
unlabeled

I age my poems
banished 'till rhyme ripens
in dim hopes one day
they'll tickle someone's tongue