The Angels' Share

August 17 2018

To age as gracefully as Scotch

in its wooden cask

in its misty highland home.

Mature notes

of malt and peat and smoke.

With hints of tropical fruit

umami and salt

toffee, leather, soap.

And as the barrels swell, the potent liquor concentrates.

So each successive year, 3 percent is lost,

just as inexorable fate

as I approach my end

will be loss after loss, as well.

While whiskey fanciers console themselves

that the scent in the air

is the angels' share

as time exacts its tithe.

As if to appease the gods.

Or as if to declare

that a single malt

brings you closer to heaven

and relieves your earthbound cares.

Tipsy angels

drunk on fumes

cavorting in the boozy haze,

too pissed

to dance on pins

or recite their evening prayers.

But I know nothing of fine whiskey,

taken straight

over spring water

without garnish or ice.

In a thick-walled tumbler

made of plain clear glass,

as unaffected

as the steady hand

in which it's held.

Its heavy bottom

anchored to the polished bar,

a warm amber glow

suffusing its charge.

In an age of instant gratification

a well-aged Scotch

is as close to priceless as it gets.

Because even the richest man

cannot buy time

no matter how much he desires it.

The decades it takes

are irreplaceable,

and his horde of gold

might just as well be dross.

So to stave in a barrel

before its time

is a kind of sacrilege.

Like a chainsaw to a tree

that has stood forever

and the weeds that will grow in its place.

The vandal

who desecrates nature.

The whiskey

we take to forget.