It’s your glass tint, translucent brown, that turns me on. The way you condensate, soak oak with a staining circle. How you froth, how you know your way from neck to throat. Your IPA, your amber ale, dark, blonde, it doesn’t matter. You’re an A+. AA, I’ll never attend. Your clear UV coating, green glass, guarding you from the sun. The warmth in my sternum, the jello of my legs. The extra layer on my hips that won’t shrink or grow. The way you keep coming back, claim coins from my pocket, pennies from my purse. The way you, 12 oz, feel like 200 lbs of flesh wrapped around my body, tingling my tongue and pursing my lips.