Eleanor Wilner


When Your Wine Cellar Becomes a Bomb Shelter
Quel dommage, no more
fromage; our champagne flutes
are dry, for we drank
the champagne when the water
failed, and the light pales now
as the dust drifts in,
for the French doors' glass
is smashed and gone,
the veranda's a crater,
and just today,
though it hurts to say,
the puppy—we ate her—
we were out of paté.
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