Four-olive Martini: A Minor Drama, Last Call


Your eyes are drained as sapphires lost in blue
And ice. The frown your face is wearing tells
An adequate counterpoint to the tap
Of painted nails now playing up and down
A crystal stem. What is holding me from you
Maintains for us our several separate hells.
Our share in the punishment—your sullen lip
Against the rim, my olive quarto on
A cocktail spike—each rings as clear and true
As Gordon’s and diamonds (or Seagram’s and pearls).
Delivering the sudden burning sip—
The winter sting that splits us skin from bone—
“To each our own!” I say, and know it’s false
But wish to cut the crap with a little gin.


  1. Louise Orrock says

    Unfortunately I didn’t see the Seagrams building on my recent visits. It’s 53rd Street, is it? I wouldn’t have been able to remember, probably, when I was there.

  2. Quin Finnegan says

    I’m thirsty!

Speak Your Mind