Three Spanish Olives

by Samuel De Lemos

Once In a while,
I feel like
driving to a bar and
ordering a dry
vodka martini.

Sit there and
twirl the three
Spanish olives
I request.

Preferably a place
that is well lit with
soft jazz, listening
to the horn blow and
piano rhythmically tap.

Slowly sipping my drink,
letting my problems
slide right down my
parched throat.

My mind
feeling aired out,
the way the delta
breeze is invited
windows partly opened,
during those
warm summer nights.

Those sweltering
summer nights,
that scream for a
alleviating, and
windswept caress.