All that was left from the shipwreck
was a tin of caviar and the wine.
A bottle of the grape and a can of bait.
You hated the taste of the caviar,
but the fish it had lured to your
make-shift fishing pole were a treat.
All you could eat until the can was drained.
For an ungodly reason, you kept the cork
intact for a special occasion, and today
was that day. The day you lost all hope.
The bottle popped with a resonance that was
a perfect counter point to the waves lapping the shore.
A lovely bouquet. Earthy!
You take a sip.
The label read “Châteauneuf du Pape, 1951”
That’s probably French for “Water from 1,951 Sewers”.
Your inebriate binge lasted long enough
for you to scribble something on the back of a leaf.
You stuffed it into the bottle.
Your last will and testament.
All your worldly possessions.
An empty tin can and your father’s watch.
You heave the bottle into the surf and watch it bob,
praying for death to rescue you. It started to sink.
Your coconut just stares.
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik