Regular

The tubes over the window are humming,

a violet flicker that makes the dust

look like it's vibrating in the air.

Benny doesn't even look up

from the sports page anymore.

He just reaches for the rye,

the bottle with the sticky neck,

and slides it across the wood.

I watch the moisture bleed

into the cardboard coaster,

gray circles overlapping

like a map of all the nights

I've sat here waiting.