Lost wax casting,
overcast
good mourning character building,
self tapes tape
seals of letters sent, and
unsend a stoic face that regards
the migrant worker named Angel without the same awe
for the sea lion,
outstretched,
hands midrow,
under vines and vineyards for Her tastings and consideration,
tongue taps tap, tap, tapping upper palettes
for a night in late October.
Sarah is a bachelorette and the wedding will be perfect,
more than perfect for the pictures,
cowboy boots and Bosses of the Plains,
western-themed but
sophisticated,
Her wildest dream,
modern rustic manifest,
trendy,
trendy,
trendy
Tech meets Wine Country,
destiny trending,
where the elders live to drink and drink
to live out
paradoxes
of choice,
Petite Syrah,
Zinfandel,
Palomino
grape gondolas running on empty,
they,
the stay-at-home nesters,
mothers who have retired
never tire of the talk
of the town,
knowing no Toast,
point of sale,
or how to run a business,
don’t dare check their stock holdings but
bug their asset managers for a small fee before yoga in the morning
and
host pashmina dinner parties outdoors,
raising their glasses to the sage they’ve grown,
in their husbands’ third home
gardens,
clinking and inhaling a vintage this,
a vintage that, they
pour another until
the bottle is
no more, well after
the golden hour digests His carnitas super
for less than ten dollars
on the 101,
with nothing
resembling a bitter taste in the mouth,
to Roseland.