Côtes du Muse* — a poem

image: Charley

“Language is wine upon the lips.” — Virginia Woolf

a small pour, please, in a crystal stem
pull a fresh cork and decant – breathe
it’s not about new but vintage unique
not the bouquet only but the palate
words sucked through the back teeth
the challenge of tastes the first sip
then clink clink clink togetherness

* * *

Another response written as I was falling asleep. Seriously. When I awoke this piece ended with two and a half pages of “ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd”!


* — Yeah, I know the title is probably nonsense in French. I’ve never learned French. If you call me bad names in French, I won’t be offended.

On Being Megan

cheese tray

photo by J. C. Lyman


The young guy with the La Closerie des Lilas apron steps out into the courtyard, beret not cast rakishly to the side.  Give him time, I think, he’ll learn.  His gaze scrapes across the crowd, seeking a target.  He carries a beautifully-crafted cheese board.

“Megan?” he calls.  A Spring bird on his way back north.

He steps forward, looking here and here.

Raises his voice over the guitarist playing ‘Round Midnight.


After yet still no response – and I wait for it – I raise my hand, “Here.”

His look tells me in advance I’m going to win this round.

“You’re Megan?”  He is beautiful in his confusion.

I eye the tray and smile, “Absolutely!  Set it here.”  I’m a big guy; a bit intimidating.

He obeys.

For a cheese tray like this I will gladly be Megan.

“Um, anything else?”

I consider.

“Why yes.  I believe we ordered two glasses of your fine Pinot Noir.”

As he heads back toward the door, I hold up half of a strawberry in salute to our valiant server.