That drink, once sweet, is bitter now from waste
and residue collecting in the cup
for years, and now it’s nearly all dried up,
deprived of all the pleasure in its taste.
True wisdom would refuse a drink it knows
to be decayed and vile and pettier
than all the pretty words he said to her
when he was peeling off her pantyhose.
But memory is not so sure. It wants
to prove itself to be as genuine
as those first nervous mutterings he slipped
across the table over fresh croissants
the morning that they met, and so it grins
and slowly reaches out for one last sip.