Sacramental

The sommelier pours almost no wine
into the man's wineglass.

The man lifts the glass to his nose inhaling
once, deeply, and once again.

Eyelids flutter, pause at just ajar
as he gathers wits and forces.

Now, between thumb and forefinger
at arm’s length, to the chandelier,

he swizzles the ruby red puddle  
like a goldfish by its  tail.

Now keep an eye on the glass while it executes
an Eighteenth Century curtsy,

prettily down and elegantly back up
to his sentient lips.  He sips.  

The wheels of his mouth, like justice,
turn slow but exceeding fine.		

He sets the glass down without further rigmarole
and turns to the waiter. “Very nice.”