Olives are your best lovers after all,
says bartender Joe, gently,
as he whispers
dry vermouth
into her
martini glass. At ten o'clock she thinks
she's done kissing frogs. "No lips left";
their magenta color's bled off.
Her money's gone too, but she asks for
one more:
Put it in my hands, Joe, she begs, where I
can keep it warm.
Put it
where it won't hurt me.