In Ireland I’d drink dark liquid in you,
Your lifeblood from waters in Dublin
And on the edge of the coastline,
The Fisher King pours me another.
In Kyoto, I’d call the sun to you,
The temple priest smiles,
False gods, false prophets he says,
And pours me rice wine in deference,
In St. Petersburg, the vodka doesn’t touch your lips,
But red borsch colors the socialism well,
Holding out hope for scholars,
Studying the Orthodox 20th century fall.
In St. Louis horses race,
Bred in America, and in true form,
Sold to the highest bidder,
I pour out your contents, swill into sidewalks.
In Paris, they love your decor,
A museum they say, be well,
Bon appétit, au revoir,
In the shadows of revolution, we toast.
— Shawn Scott Smith is a writer of a bunch of published poems and short stories. He lives in Asheville, NC, plays pinball, and likes to meet new people. All of his adventures are documented on his website at https://luckycreature.neocities.org/ and most social media spots @luckycreature