Chianti's shelf-life is a mystery
Wrapped in a riddle stashed inside a naked
Refrigerator. This is history
Uncorked -- to drink, the connoisseur must fake it
Until he's wasted, one discolored tumbler
At a time. The process is a process,
Eventually leaving post-date drinkers humbler,
A bit unclear, and sapient. Most profess
Epiphanies, apotheoses, dreams
Of Xanadu -- and monkey brains -- and pleasure
Decanters dumping wine in Roman streams
Advanced beyond their sell-by dates. This measure
Of waste not, want not fills my glass with fruitless
Calories -- leaving us enlightened and rootless.
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