poem #47

for James Catto






breed and blend in-house talent
with the purity of instincts
avoid dilution, stop confusion,
stir the malt

the highland creams and afterthoughts
of an artisan becoming wizard
and man turning a refined beast
for good

a scotch in my hand
some money in my pocket
lust printed in black ink
across my carved forehead

confections and inventions
swim inside a green bottle
i presume, you keep blending
and it all boils up

distilling pain works this way
taking longer rides and easier girls
selling your craft to millions
happiness not included in your golden elixir

a nasty accident, lazy heirs
and vicious company lead a man
to fatal crossroads
and the sound of a bagpipe mourns the expected

we're all so proud and silly

drinking to your memory and trying hard to forget it may just not be today


victor chapman (Chicago, IL, 1982)