Grappa, made from the dregs
of the vine, is a mighty fine
fuel to burn down a sleepy town.
But the best of the best, I guess,
served just past sunset at the oasis

is smoother than the smoothest silk–
or perhaps cloth of some courser ilk–
close enough, at any rate, to partake.
Shaky legs may slip a bit as we wend
our way downhill to their other place,
a friendly haunt (“The Happy Bacchus”).