The Martini in the Mirror

The martini kept talking but he didn't hear,
quit listening long ago, watching only the olive now
skewered and sinking away from the incessant noise.
"Lady dammit, will you just shut the hell up?"
Then, in a huff, the martini stumbles away. Faux pas?

Damn, she looks almost good -- walking away
between the bottles of bourbon, reflected through the smoke.
Two drinks ago he might have cared (they're sweeter when free)
and with a couple more shots he might have loved her -- until morning
until the hangover, the tremors and the pain
vomiting her name as she echoes down the drain.

In the mirror, through the bottles, cigarette smoke and dust
he watches her stumbling to find a lap to sit on.
"That bastard'll listen, he'll play and pay."
An empty glass, hell-- he misses the martini
the fluid sip of possibility, something softer than a slap,
the smooth curve of the olive rolling off his tongue.

It burns him, catching a glimpse of her through the bloodshot,
haggard haze. He orders another bourbon -- double shots
and watches the martini wiggle her way into another drink.
Dammit, he doesn't care, in the end it's all the same
hating them once he's done, the worn faces, torn bodies
liquid in his hands, flowing with olives and ice
a touch of vermouth, until he throws them out still dripping of him.
Tomorrow morning, another cliche' -- hair of the dog
he fades into the smoke, longing the martini in the mirror.