With his left hand <br />he slowly raises <br />his finely cut crystal glass <br />filled with a most expensive bourbon <br />to his dry and parted lips <br />as if to savor <br />more the finality <br />of the moment <br />than the distinct and full bouquet <br />of the distiller's <br />single barrel creation. <br />He gingerly sips his last drink <br />being very cautious <br />not to bruise the ice <br />while somewhere <br />in the blue hills of Kentucky <br />a bung is being popped <br />from yet another giant barrel. <br />When- <br />with the index finger <br />of his right hand <br />he releases the gun's trigger <br />of any guilt it may feel <br />for the obvious coldness <br />of its steel heart. <br />Life may not always be good <br />but you can't blame it on the bourbon<br /><br />Ted Sheridan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dilettante-falls-victim-to-his-own-subjective-opinions/
