The Culprit’s as Red-Faced as the Merlot

The finest white table cloth
Seduces merlot, filled to the brim,
To spill, red as liver…
The shape of Greenland…
On innocent linen.
It never spills on a blue plastic
Throwaway cloth,
And never a Riesling
That spills with no trace.
But merlot races
On woven lanes of golden threads
With glee to the hem of a pristine shore.