Wine and Waiters

The two were loud, their table was a mess;
The yuppies paid whatever they were billed
And quickly left.  A Châteauneuf-du-Pape
Forgotten on the terrace, two-thirds filled.

The waiter and his friend left cleaning up
Decided then to sneak the bottle out.
A small act of defiance played against
Those who would waste what some must live without.

At midnight, after work, both found themselves
Up on a hill, where overlooking Nice
They drank straight from the bottle staring at
The dark Mediterranean abyss

Where the few points of light were only yachts —
The moneyed world one someday hoped to work.
Our waiters sat content, if mildly drunk,
Whole oceans kept at bay with one forced smirk.

The wine was blameless, yet it typified
A luxury one wielded like a prop.
They sank into the grass as night stretched taut
And yachts turned starlight, floating overtop.

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