Nothing added to the mix lately,
our scotch salesman has lost his will
to peddle single malts to tourists
in the town square. Everybody
he comes across seems to be
a carbon copy of the people he’s already
met there, which begs the question:
are people all more or less the same?
A purveyor of fine peated spirits
may only see half of the equation,
as he’s not coming across the conscientious ones
who decided to stay home and save their money
for more useful domestic purposes (often going
to the liquor store and blindly picking
a whisky from the shelf while the store clerk
doesn’t even feign interest).


Author: Aidan Badinger

Wharved.com I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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