Muscatel

Sour grapes.

I chew them all the day long,
bursting like cheap Muscatel
on my dry lips, staining my teeth
a royal purple, and isn't that a dainty
dish? Crunching like the bones of blackbirds

suspended on the wire

seeming immune to the crackles of static
that are my words across the telphone
lines. You never wanted change, preferring
being stationary to being mobile; so your
lifeline lies across your hallway desk,
awaiting the Imperial Summons.

I hear the tolling of the bells

wanting so badly to say "Bite me"

and I try, but your mail is already full.

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