The Man at the Bar

He drank the well, neatly,
Flanked by friends,
Stooped but steady enough,
Hemmed neatly into the fabric of the bar,
Noted, not noticed.
The bartender read him like a tome,
Poured without asking,
The warmest of rituals,
Glasses for glances,
Paper exchanged for patronage
No change needed,
The tilt of a bottle’s neck.

At first in eased communion,
But the hours knurled along,
He tilted towards the bow,
Eyes shuttered.
Allies whispered to him,
Carving his slumped spine,
“Fresh air”.
Carried, like a wounded solider,
To a wooden chair outside,
Propped by loving hands,
And the barkeep’s dread,
But held down by the unknown.

The red and white lights gushed
Through the dirt-stained windows,
Barlight overwhelmed