Fake Beer

For decades I had a beer with dinner
like my father always did.
When I was about five, he offered me
a teaspoonful and it was love at first swallow.
No acquired taste needed.

Something about the crisp bite
of tiny bubbles that pop against my tongue,
the depth of a dense bitterness,
the broad cool wetness,
that turns my mouth to dance.

A luscious stout or porter
quickens my pulse, brings sparkle to my eyes.
Yet I know it isn’t good for me.
I try to trick myself with non-alcoholic beer,
make it firmly grab the collar of my longing.

But it sits like a princess, tame and proper,
on my expectant tongue,
delicately arranging its skirts
where bolder actions ought to thrive
and take the place of silk and lace.

It’s a crescendo without climax,
a dead-end fake
that substitutes cool but narrow refreshment,
brimming with self-righteousness,
for a surrender to supreme libation.