Ode to White Zin

Ode to White Zin

(Dedicated to my ex-husband’s cousin whom I’ll never have to see again for the rest of my life, thank goodness)

When I offered him a glass of wine
He hesitated and asked what kind
White Zinfandel, said I
How pedestrian, he replied
And rolled his eyes

As soon as he left, I searched online—
What exactly is a pedestrian wine?
The first result was
White Zinfandel,
That sweet, cheap wine for those who’ve finally graduated
From Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill
That pink drink whose sweetness sometimes masks
Low quality grapes among those too simple and
Unsophisticated to know any better.

I’m surprised that article—and he—didn’t mention
My penchant for dollar store finds,
Gingham cloth,
Sun catchers at the kitchen window
And Pachelbel’s Canon in D,
And though he’d roll his eyes again,
They speak to me.

Just think: All it took was a glass of White Zin
To know that I never wanted
To see him again.

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