The Martini

I found my stainless steel martini shaker,
and that made me very happy. It was one of many
hidden treasures that I found in the bottom
of a wilted cardboard box at the back of the barn
near the cobwebbed dresser where the kitties
take their afternoon naps. I wasted no time
in driving to the liquor store to replenish my stock
of vodka and vermouth and those jumbo olives
that are stuffed with their own hidden treasures --
little cubes of bleu cheese and garlic cloves
and jalapeno peppers.
I chilled the shaker in the freezer,
the guts of a glacier somewhere in Alaska.
I took it out 30 minutes later to fill with ice cubes
and just the perfect amount of ingredients. This is not
an experiment.
I shook and poured, straining glacier residue, pouring the magic
into a long-stemmed martini glass, the old-fashioned fragile variety
that can break easily like a human heart.
One seemed to be enough
but I received another just for the practice.
I woke up at three o'clock
curled up on the dresser in the back of the barn
with a kittie between my legs.