Unasked Answers

Winter street is a stone’s throw away,

the flawlessness of the glass under my fingers,

five minutes — a whole century — before closing,

and the question — between the lines — no offense?

The taste of mulled wine is an almond rainbow,

Casual chatter spreads like the hoarfrost

All forgotten, past, unfulfilled…

Memory? Come, come, come! What wonder is this?

The consolation of personal illusions.

All desires are stuck at the floodgates.

Alcohol… the oldest way to honesty.

Can you trade the confession for emptiness?

Do not make so much noise;

it will frighten away the visitors…

but no. Five minutes to closing time.