"Notes and Rhymes left at Ralphs"
Take Me to Ralph’s
In this time of trouble, take me to Ralph’s,
Where bottles gleam under fluorescent halts.
Wine, beer, and liquor lined up in rows,
Each with a story that only it knows.
Laughter spills near the warm asphalt,
Strangers and friends with glasses exalt.
Various brands from famous lands,
Whispering promises with outstretched hands.
French Bordeaux, rich and aged,
Or a smoky Scotch, bold and engaged.
Japanese Suntory, smooth as silk,
Or Italian Prosecco, light as milk.
Enticing labels, a buyer’s dream,
Expensive tastes in a golden gleam.
A few thousand for a Merlot’s grace,
Several more for Hennessy’s embrace.
Would it be foolish, would it be wise,
To spend for the comfort of midnight sighs?
To chase away this lonesome view,
In the depths of amber, in sips I pursue.
Some would say San Miguel is enough,
That Ginebra is divine, strong and tough.
A drink for the bold, the brave at heart,
A toast to beginnings, to ends, to starts.
A mug of Sapporo, crisp and light,
Will do for me on this weary night.
Take me to Ralph’s where the bottles gleam,
Where echoes of laughter fill my dream.
Where liquid gold in glasses sways,
And bittersweet thoughts melt away.
For in this time of trouble, just for a while,
Let me forget and drink with a smile.
If she doesn’t like coffee, then what will suffice?
Perhaps a deep red merlot in the glow of dim lights,
Or a glass of cabernet sauvignon, rich, bold, and divine,
To wash down the troubles that weigh on her mind.
A mug of Sapporo, golden and true,
Letting the bubbles chase sorrow anew.
For in times of crisis, when moments feel hollow,
We drink to our lives, be it joy or sorrow.
She likes the way to hold a bottle, fingers tracing its shape,
A moment of silence, a slow sip to take.
Is it for comfort, for solace, for fun?
Or just for the weight of the glass in the sun?
A quiet distraction, a habit unspoken,
A drink half-forgotten, a thought left unbroken.
If she doesn’t like coffee, then maybe instead
A mug filled with warmth, where cocoa is spread.
With marshmallows floating, melting so slow,
A comfort she holds when the cold winds blow.
Or perhaps a fine tea, a delicate art,
Earl Grey with bergamot, awakening the heart.
Oolong, so fragrant, with whispers of leaves,
Or chamomile’s softness, like silk in the breeze.
Yet I wonder aloud, as I gaze at the frame,
A picture of her with a mug in her name.
What secret it holds, dark liquid inside,
Is it coffee or something she’s chosen to hide?
Not water, not cocoa, not tea, yet it lingers,
A mystery cradled between her small fingers.
If she doesn’t like coffee, then what could it be?
A drink of her choosing—uncharted, unseen.