Tonight, again

I keep the rum
in the back of the cabinet
because it tastes like pain.

The beer tastes like poker
or dominoes;
the wine like the children
have gone to bed early,
and the dishes are done.

The rum pours into any glass
when I shove aside the amaretto
(which tastes like romance)
and the sambucca
(which tastes like history),
clinking the bottles
to draw the rum
from where it has been banished
since last time.