The Regular Who Left

There's a stranger behind the counter

pouring from the same bottles,

but his wrists move differently,

his hands don't know the muscle memory

of this particular bar,

the way the glasses sit,

the way the pour should arc,

the way everything here

has a rhythm that takes time

to learn.

He's fine. He's pouring fine.

But it's not fine.

My stool is the same stool.

The leather is the same worn spot.

The height is the same.

But something is missing

the way things go missing

when the person who made the place

into a place is suddenly gone.

He didn't say goodbye.

That's what they told me.

Just didn't show up.

Just texted someone

that he was done.

I don't know where he went.

I don't know if he's okay.

I know the new guy is pouring,

and I'm sitting on the stool,

and the stool doesn't feel like home

anymore because the person who made it home

decided home wasn't worth staying for.

The new guy asks what I want.

I order the same thing.

He makes it wrong.

Not wrong. Just different.

I drink it anyway.

I come back tomorrow.

The stool will be here.

The stranger will be here.

The thing that was here before

will still be gone.