Lost

Last evening
a poem came to me,
riding on the dark waves of my fourth drink
like a bright white ship.

Spotting you through the distortion of our cocktail glasses
I paused and thoughtfully rubbed my gin,
steering the ship in the approximate direction of where you were.

The rest of the evening was the same sea story:

You were a pirate, come to rob my ship.
And as I gazed at your convex dimple,
part eclipsed by an olive,
you stole all my metaphors
and a beautiful closing couplet,
leaving an empty bright white vessel.

This morning, there is a throbbing head in the glass
where an olive once was,
and I am left craving
a dead pirate's society.