Bob and I are reading poetry,
trying for a moment to be somewhere
besides the bar.
He owns it and I tend to it, but
sometimes people stay home with a 6-pack,
so we retreat.
Bob sits at the table where the light is best.
It is where he goes over his horse racing forms,
figures the lottery sales, and sometimes
when his work is done
he reads poetry.
I take the last seat at the bar
where I can still see the span of it
and daydream between poems.
I come here to earn my living, for a dose of grit,
and because there might be nothing
more beautiful than this old man, his fist to his ear
as if he's listening for some whisper
to get him through the night.
I set up a boilermaker for Charlie
and smile at the back of Bob's head.
He is reading a book of poetry
under the fluorescent cooler lights
which spell out his name in bold letters.
