Poem

Oh how I love an inky nib whose grip

Sits snugly at a poet’s fingertip;

A goblet spilling liquid.  Ferment stains

Persistently the rug of life’s refrains.

But who to fête with how the wine will age?

The vintner’s skill at peppering a page?

The testing tongue of the sommelier who

Sensibly recommends to table two

His favoured glass?  The diners, nervous, set

Their drunk delight by his lettered palate,

So, cooing over bottles they succumb

To the outpourings of his father’s chum.

Rare is the life that judges by its own

Receptors.  Rarer still the voice alone

Yet knowing of its fellows.  Thus begins

A private conversation between twins -

And from such special, secret heart to heart,

The sweet intoxication of true art.