is this a poem?

some days i write things, and i'm just not really sure. most of the time i think it's my confused brain oozing lazily onto paper...

it's not the wine
that turns my cheeks
blush--one glass
white, three red. i watch
the night turn navy
through the curved cups,
over the crisp rim, and can't
help but compare it
to the way my bare foot
feels on this old wood porch.
my toes curl and expand with
anticipation, cracked heel
catches splinters between
boards. but it's all still
beautiful, somehow--the goblets
and my toes meeting
yours on this porch. the first
night of many lingering
glances across empty
bottles and imperfect wood.