The Ring on the Wood

Tuesday again.

The swing door sighing shut behind me,

same cool air,

same low hum.

Walked to the corner stool,

the one worn smooth.

He just slid the glass across,

no question.

My usual,

already pouring.

The amber liquid settling,

a perfect golden weight.

I watched the first

cold ring bloom

on the dark, polished wood.

A mark left

before I even touched it.