Six decades ago, as an ostentatious imbiber,
I assembled a finely crafted staghorn bar set.
German made, with beer bottle opener, 
bottle recappers for wine, bar knife, 
corkscrew and a pointed opener for cans.

The implements were mounted with pride
inside the rear of a walnut bookcase bar
the front of which housed expensive books.
some of which I’d actually read.
The staghorns were used, as I recall, twice.

After two decades of non-drinking
I decided to clean out the back of the bar
and there they were, hanging at the ready
in all their elegance, waiting for the party
that hadn’t taken place in a cat’s life.

They are who I thought I was meant to be
and I cannot not just abandon them
to the knick-knack pile at Goodwill,
and so I’ll keep them safely cached
until I can find them a good home.
                        

I try not to hate too easily.
for in that repugnance
squirm the carrion larvae
that turn into corpse flies
seeking even ranker hatreds.