Under dim bar light a slick patch gleams

Under dim bar light, a slick patch gleams,

a careless spit, like a bruise in streams.

It glints against scuffed wood, a wet disguise,

a mark unnoticed by most passing eyes.

I shift my weight, caught in that space,

where distance and proximity lace.

Something sour trails the air,

a line drawn in unseen stare.

Left there, quiet, dull and plain—

the spit that lingers like silent pain.