Libations, by all means.
Entreat me with a treat—stout,
Anchor Steam beer, Jim Beam bourbon,
an IPA, or another civilized beverage.
Homemade mead or coffee liqueur.
Perhaps a smooth Scotch whisky.
Maybe a bottle of the finest wine
or even a discounted, knock-off blend.
Something for the ages, or not.
Vintage doesn’t matter—it’s only time.
Pour from the crudest vessel,
a humble-rough jug, or elegant crystal—
you won’t gain an inside track with me.
I am partial to sincerity and effort.
Get my attention: decant something ruddy-fine
from your wild unruly heart.
The spirit your entreaty is made in matters most.
I hear every plea. My answer may be No,
but take heart: You may not need me.
I am not the final word. You are.
What you desire—another chance,
a fresh start—is within your gasp.
