Whiskey Hour

The kitchen's getting cold and long,

as afternoon starts to decay.

But on the counter, bright and strong,

the whiskey bottle holds the day.

Sunlight, thin and nearly gone,

finds the glass and starts to glow.

Turns the cheap stuff, like a dawn,

to liquid gold, a molten flow.

It catches light, it holds the heat,

a bottled history, rich and deep.

Too warm to drink, too bitter sweet,

the secrets that the amber keeps.