It's in the poem.


The wine from Argentina
called me as a home
I never saw
except in pages of literature,
portraits of Juan Peron
grainy films of gauchos
riding frenzied horse flesh.
The bottle of wine called
to drink a soul admired.
I bought it.
The cork was stubborn,
justifying corking fees.
I pulled with the grit of
Juan Peron brooking no
excuse for failure.
It yielded a grudging submission,
to reveal the secrets of
Argentina! Argentina!
I poured a blue glass
left over from a toast
with a doomed love
and tasted

Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 355 times
Written on 2020-06-29 at 05:29

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This poem was a joy to read, sir! Well done!