A Large Glass of Red Wine

From California,
Just as I am,
Still wet behind
Its bouquet ears.
A subtle hint
Of salt water
And warm sand,
Redwood bark,
Barrios, realpolitik.
Swirled like Listerine
In my middle-
aged mouth, becoming
every fat grape
and every fat dream
I left behind
In the sunny courtyard
Of Clement Jr. High
In May of 1971
When I became
An expatriate,
An ex-prune picker,
“C.C,” “California Cool”
To a clique of
Arkansas clodhoppers
Who’ve also now
Long faded into
That curious residue
That persists
At the bottom
of the empty glass.