Lift the Zinfadel to your lips,
slip your tongue into the glass
as if a mouth awaits your kisses--
such icy, thin stemmed bowls they all were!
That image in the hallway glass
stares back at me as if amused
to see that hag and beauty were
soon too married in a mirror of shame.
The staunch and starched amuse
themselves with my youthful antics
but their judgments do not add shame,
only a kind of heartbreaking milestone
to the foibles of time and antics
in a world so hungry for kisses,
so yearning for fairytale milestones--
left as wet whispers on closed lips.