Saturday, August 16, 2014

Circa '62

Circa '62

Through a trapdoor
down steep stairs
on the dirt floor,
beside some dusty shelves, 
it stands: a rusted can 
as tall as we are tall.
Even with the cover tight,
the odor fills the room,
and in the dim light,
we swoon in yeasty haze.
We fill our cups
and dare to tip them up,
secret in our ways,
these heady home brew days.

1 comment:

  1. One of the reasons, of which there are many, I miss my father in law is he was the only person I know who could make a good Chianti and a damn fine Grappa in his basement. He taught me to rip then dip the bread in the olive oil,eat and drink. "62 would be a stretch though, i don't think he's be able to let the memory last that long.