Littlest Brontides | cereseithne
Bestowing Solace
A highball whisked across the high-top table,
then a whiff of herbaceous mint and citrusy
redolence wafted through my nose briskly.
A summer aperitif garnished with a sprig of
mentha leaves were bestowed upon me.
Mojito, as what they ordinarily name it.
And I uttered with head tilted to the side,
carrying ginormous plight under my eyes,
"But, I did not order, and I do not drink."
The bartender retorted with an amused
expression unknowingly etched across his face:
"I know you're not here for that."
YOU ARE READING
Littlest Brontides
PoetryAn anthology tackling the cosmic baffling collision of societal conditions and the incalculable prejudices and other musings coming as littlest brontides with a hope that their low rumbles may find their ways to you. Always and forever, Ceres Eithne
