There could never be a silver bullet
for poor Miss Scarlet O'Hara.
Just imagine what a heart stopper
that end would have been, leaving
her dandy Rhett Butler to take his
southern comfort elsewhere,
to drown his sorrows in bourbon
and coke down at the Blue Lagoon,
pretending he was trying to forget
his sweetest young angel's kiss.
She was like a bad habit, that one,
a knockout but a troubled lone star
used to dreaming about some French
connection on whom she could turn
a single eye like a gimlet, boring in on dry
red lips for a chance at that Parisian
fool's gold. Every gentle Ben for as far as you
could see would fall for her, always on
Cinco de Mayo, when she, dressed up in black
velvet, batted those long lashes like
the femme fatale she put on. But she'd invite
no cowboy back to her Casa Blanca
draped in Spanish moss, never travel to
Chicago to talk emu export
at the Mercantile Exchange, or let full sail
in the middle of some hurricane.
Nobody'd ever deny what a Georgia peach
she could be, this stinger who'd spend
her last golden nugget for a chance to set
Rhett one old-fashioned fire in the sky.
© 2011 Maureen E. Doallas
This poem is a response to Donna Vorreyer's Poetry Tow Truck prompt "Have a Drink on Me" at her blog Put Words Together. Make Meaning. The prompt requires the writer to use at least three of the phrases found in this list of drink names but to use them in a different context, not as the names of drinks.