Absolution
The cap breaks
to the left and spins
loose on the table
like a drunken top.
Is the rush in the ritual
or in the result?
Three cubes,
no more, no less,
dropped one at a time
with bombardier
precision from above.
There follows the muted
plock-plock-plock
as the amber liquid
escapes the bottle,
and the pressure pop
of the ice as it welcomes
the whiskey.
Pavlov is affirmed
as the scent of Speyside
malt and smoke fills the senses
and light dances and refracts
through the diamonds
and gold in the glass.
The familiar bite
against the lips wakes me,
and I emerge like a penitent man
from the confessional,
absolved and ready
to sin again.
SMG
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