and the wine from Portugal

a few questions remain on my chin

like drops of dark cranberry juice

with a neat twist of lemon,

hijacking my tranquil mood

as i'm returning a container of fresh milk

to the kitchen refrigerator.

a woman is speaking on live tv

to a white haired man with a pancake face

and a soft cream grin, who tries to interrupt

with a house fly on his head,

eating shit and bits of stale popcorn.

and yet another hurricane is approaching the Gulf of Mexico

with a Greek name and one hundred mile an hour

winds, looking for another city to destroy.

California wildfires consuming millions of acres of forests in an

attempt to engorge themselves, are eating like obese ants at a climate change

party, waiting for the chocolate cake which never arrives.

Armenia is failing. Azerbaijan is failing.

Putin is a tragedy.

Trump is a presidential disgrace.

and Pink Floyd is playing a British song about my mother dropping her bomb

over a dusty New Mexican desert.

a border wall is being built from steel plates while a pod

of pilot whales remain stranded on a remote New Zealand beach.

there are children in a prison without lights on at night to make it impossible

for them to find their parents, who are also in a prison without lights on at night.

a public picnic table is empty under the spreading chestnut tree.

the village blacksmith is looking for his lump of coal and a hammer for the anvil blow.

a square-jawed sheriff is looking for his shiny badge when the wall clock strikes high noon;

the nearest saloon is filled with lonely drinkers, all eyeing a table holding the ace of spades.

the Earth is spinning like a busy top playing games as the warm winds blow in

from the southern ice shelf, groaning in a whirling fit of exasperation,

while to the far north Santa Claus sits on his snow sled looking inside a big brown bag,

empty of gifts for the needy and the lost, but filled with voices singing Mozart's Requiem in D Minor. 

and the wine from Portugal is better than you think.