Now loneliness is less; within the glass,
Mixed with the olive, lemon or orange rind,
Appears a lovely promise come to pass,
Bright hope that leaves all other hopes behind.
The stem is moist and cool, each moment is new;
The hour hesitates, is overdue.
And yet the clock must move; determined hands
Proceed inexorably across its face;
Inevitably the unfulfilled demands
Present themselves even in this special place.
Within the glass a tepid sediment
Proclaims that loneliness is imminent.