The door swung open the bell dinged low

The door swung open, the bell dinged low,

and Frank, the barkeep, gave a knowing slow

nod. Before I could speak, the glass was there,

rye and ginger, floating in the stale air.

A familiar burn, a welcome deep,

a secret I just couldn't keep.

The three old men, in their usual spot,

fixed on the screen, like they’d forgot

the world outside, or even time,

their faces blank, a silent mime.

I wiped the counter, already clean,

and felt the hum of this familiar scene.

My glass left a wet, dark circle, a ring

on the varnished wood, a silent thing.

A stain I'd made a thousand times before,

a mark of coming back for more.

And more. And more. The habit held me fast,

a story written, built to last.

The easy chair, the dim, low light,

another Tuesday slipping into night.

And me, just watching, letting minutes bleed,

a thirsty soul, planting the same old seed.

No good. No bad. Just here, again, I guess.

Lost in the quiet, in the perfect mess.