The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Negroni Night

haggling over pimentoed olives and 
the price of provolone, chianti, and 
a bit of bread, I rest my weariness 
of exploring along the riverside,
hold a whimsical trial of tastings
and slather paint dabs on taut canvas
as I endeavor to capture the idyllness
of time and the terroir of my findings

but the dusk dries up as I retire my oils
and I sally alongside buses into 
the castled city of lights awash with the
errant scent of lost urine and cars fuming
my blood quickens to find the unexplored
but I settle for a just-opening trattoria 
my hunger splurges on ocean delights and 
arcanely-crafted specialities of the night
waves of excited laughing wash over my solitude
as I peruse my moleskine sketches and
calculate the trajectory of tomorrow

in the end, in the last light's fading
I trade grappa for the campari twist of
a negroni, ambered jewel as dry as
it is cloying, my tongue recoils into
its bath of bitters, spiced by subtlely
cooling asphalt and the hum of incandescence
my feet throbbing and my head heavying
I sit back through the ruby lens and
trace the lineage til now
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