If only the doomed suitor in
The Merchant of Venice knows
That you and I, over three slow months,
Took turns in our exhaustion of the Moroccan Rose
Perhaps, he would have felt slightly better
For that semi-liquid bottled matter,
Of which the bottle is emptied now,
Was as integral a part as ever there was
In the art of loving; or of being in love.
Would a bottle speak, if one was given a mic?
This season-changing December now closes,
And there where he is, I wonder, does the
Bottle, in his left-alone status wonder as to
What’s going on? As to where I’ve gone? Or,
True to his genre, will he bottled all that in?