Saturdays are for the Boys

Waking up, he stretches and yawns.

His bedside table is bare except for a lone flask. 

He takes a swig and grimaces

the warm, red liquid hits his tongue. 

Dionysus crumples into his covers,

unsatisfied by the tepid wine

He storms out of his room

Walking until he stops in front of a humble building. 

The sun glints off the store’s commodities 

and fills the young god’s vision.

A burlap sack. 

Its contents: block of ice. 

The handsome god, lit by fire and moonlight, 

removes the ice from the burlap. 

His followers draw near

He raises his fist, breathing stops, everything is silent.

A resounding crack breaks the silence.

From the ice a deep scarlet liquid pours. 

Wine.

Muscles relaxed 

Dionysus had finally cracked open a cold one with the boys.