Preservation

The sun hits the pint glass at four,

turning the cheap lager into a brick of gold.

I’m sitting here waiting for a friend who is late,

watching the light turn the condensation cold.

On the bar sits a resin square,

a paperweight holding a fly in its chest.

Suspended in amber, a permanent stare,

locked in a moment of motionless rest.

I’m not even mad that I’m sitting alone

while the clock on the wall continues to tick.

Some things are better when carved out of stone,

or caught in the light when it’s heavy and thick.