Regular

The glass was already there when I sat down.

Thursday. Ice already going.

Danny had his back to me—no sound,

no greeting—just the slow, knowing

reflex of a man who's learned

the order by now. November

is where this started. I returned

after a call I'd rather not remember

and talked too much. Said her name out loud.

He nodded at the bar and moved.

I thought: gone, bar talk, a crowd

of one—the kind of thing that's grooved

over by closing. But he held it. And now

the glass is there before I'm through

the door. I don't know how

that happened. But I sit into

what's already been decided.

The prescription filled

before the patient spoke. Divided

from the choice somehow. I'm billed

for what I've put in.

He doesn't look up.

The ice goes thin.

I pick up the cup.