The preacher was fast and the weather was cold

The preacher was fast and the weather was cold,

and nobody liked all the stories we told.

The bar is too quiet, the lighting is dim,

and nobody wants to be talking of him.

I’m watching the side of my glass as it leaks,

avoiding the sight of the salt on their cheeks.

A single clear bead makes a run for the base,

leaving a line like a tear on a face.

It cuts through the frost of the cold, heavy bead

and gives me the only distraction I need.

It hits the gray cardboard and spreads in a ring,

while we wait for the comfort that nobody can bring.