The Drink That Knows My Name

I walk in and the drink is waiting,

already poured, already there,

the glass condensating in the air

like it's been waiting.

The bartender doesn't even look—

just motion, just the hand

that's learned my brand,

that knows exactly where to look.

A new person asks what's good,

he points at me without thinking,

and I feel the shrinking

of becoming understood.

The stool is worn exactly where I sit.

The leather has my shape.

I'm inventory. No escape

from this predictable fit.

I'm seen. That's the problem.

Not known—seen.

The way you see a stain

that's become the fabric itself.