Standard Practice

She put down a coaster, a circle of cork,

and I held my glass like a strange kind of work.

I remembered the table where I used to sit,

with the rings on the wood and the grime in the grit.

We used paper towels, folded over in four,

to catch all the sweat as it dripped to the floor.

A stack of them sat by the heavy glass tray,

where the ash was a mountain at the end of the day.

It’s funny the things that you think are the law,

until you step out and you see what you saw.

A square of white Bounty to soak up the spill,

while the rest of the world has a different skill.