For the NaPoWriMo prompt (yes, I should be writing) a poem that references our present Gilet Jaune phenomenon and a selling tactic for the surplus production of expensive wines.
The traffic radars are broken,
and road deaths soar on black wings,
charred angel feathers floating,
drifting amid the anger and the barbecues.
Must be some good in it, common sense pleads,
like the curate’s egg, like declassified Burgundy.
At least no one gets speeding tickets anymore.
The cheaper one is just as good, you say
behind the salesman’s back,
and I wonder how long the plastic fittings will last,
but you are already halfway to the checkout,
applying the same logic to lawnmowers as to wine.
You were handsome once in a conventional way
and said the right things.
You never knew I wanted the real gutsy thing
not the cheaper version.
The gilded label was the same, same curlicue script,
but it was all in the small print.
Look, you point, same region, same terroir.
Just the same.
But my eyes point to the price tag.
Perhaps I could never have afforded the real thing.
I was never in that league.
Perhaps, with time,
I will find that declassified tastes just as good
as the real thing.