He was a wine writer primed and gray
Coherence was his personal value esteemed
Still …
Blurred visions and melancholic spells … for him
Were no legacies only for the inebriated reserved
For lucid appraisals … like wine drinking itself
Has been a totem as well as a cross …

Years spent at grape harvests still abide with him
Dreams of vineyards and wineries he could not discard
Grape growers and winemakers … he knew by name 
But …
He was a wine writer primed and gray
Perching on a skyscraper window smeared with muck
In his heart was his last debate
The quandary was not about his work    

Not about the wine for which he’d vote …
                             Between …
                     The sauvignon blanc he drank the night before
              And the pinot noir that graced his page
        His choice was all but made 
        So … not even merlot was on his mind today
About cabernet and chardonnay he’d already had his say

This
Quandary
Was
About life and death …

His head was like a spin-drier gone amok 
For …
            His wife will have a kid in June
            Karmic rage was the way he saw his fate …
            Ghosts in vintry cellars out to settle their scores
            For …
                    The kid was not his own … 
                    It belonged to a vintner whose wine … long ago
                    He’d described as an inelegant brew on his page
Jump …
Was the only voice in his head today
In his eyes visions swarmed like grape seeds in a harvest field 
Visions of fat karmas ...
      On a skyscraper window smeared with muck
Waiting patiently …
For the wine writer to take his plunge

Copyright 2005 from Sam's anthology:
SENSUAL ILLUSIONS