The sweetest air in the room,
Came from the Armagnac Vieux
A maroon, aged wine, delicate by twirl.
... Years grip the taste.... Exotic.
Every inch of me was an older man.
I have value... Patience

The flickering porch light,
Failed to hide the full moon.
I watched.
Believing this moment was written,
Centuries before the wine.
This house, This self-centered tree,
In the front lawn.

The Vieux was a cure for this moment,
A substitute for trying over again & again.
This was the remedy, with slow jams,
& the night perched on my skin.
The aftermath of feeling low.
The void shaped as baggage,
Slung over my shoulder.

I used to pretend I was a magician.
A card trick & A lost rabbit.
To hear the aww's & maybe get a tip.
When I got older I became a magician
A wanderer, who seeks light.
A saddened prairie, loved by animals.

The mandarin cherry flavor soaks
My bloodstream.
The Magic I thought I had,
Was no more.