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Bottles, bottles, bottles all on the floor
Add a fourth bottle and you have the score
Two bottles of water, both primed to pour
Into the parchéd mouth, sweet speech’s door:
One bottle is red, two bottles are clear
One bottle is black, and its cap is red
A howling coyote, framed by the sphere
of a full moon, brilliant and overfed:
My favorite bottle is hot sauce, salsa
Picante. It burns my tongue evenly
No matter which tongue, a flavor balsa
Buoying flavorless foods to set them free:
I have a fifth bottle I failed to mention
It bottles my dreams – an endless detention.

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