the fourth martini

you can't be
more charming and clever
after one
strong martini,
stirred, not
shaken. ice cold
with an
olive perched on
a toothpick.
by the second one,
you are reciting poetry,
giving details
of why clouds
are clouds,
how it takes a
lot to laugh but
a train to cry.
at the end of a
third martini you
are on your knees
professing your love
and devotion
to someone who you
cant remember
exactly what
her name is.
you can't recall
the fourth or anything
that followed.
but there is a lingering
feeling of
regret as you
search for your
keys, your wallet
and pants as the sun
rises painfully
through a crack
in the blinds.