Third Stool From the End

The spill catches light like a bad omen,

beer and regret pooling on sticky laminate.

I sit third stool from the end —

where the same faces blur into shadows,

the same laughs sound hollow, too loud.

Tonight the bartender’s eyes linger a moment,

silent judgment in the flicker of neon.

Fingers curl around a sweating glass,

sweat and smoke mixing in the stale air.

I’m part of this place,

a fixture no one really notices —

a cracked coaster in a worn-out booth.

Someone laughs too close,

a breath hot and unwanted on my neck.

I swallow, the bitterness doesn’t leave the glass,

or the night.