The music is blaring, but not enough for the lyrics 
to be heard clearly over the chitter of the register, 
the plastic-haired sportscaster’s enthusiastic play- 
by-play from the television, the din of town drunks 
clinging lopsidedly to the bar, beer-brave voices 
chuffing and squealing, accompanying the lone 
man with a guitar and a chipped tip jar, careless 

curls falling damp over his forehead, perched atop 
a three-legged stool and singing from the soul with 
his eyes closed. I close mine too, hoping the loss 
of sight will quell this feeling that the insectile gaze 
of every pair of eyes is skittering across my hide 
but instead it amplifies the atmosphere, this sharp 
edge intensity, until I can almost taste the colors 

in the room. The early summer breeze creeps lazily 
towards my corner table through open doors, twining
itself around the sweating lowball glass in a sultry 
embrace. The stout old fashioned begrudgingly begins 
to give up its coolness, orange twist and cherry red 
treasures sunk to the amber bottom—a watery house 
bourbon grave—and I try to imagine myself there

languid limbs floating weightless in the glass, engulfed
in melting ice and bitters that drown every other sound 
except that sweetly spiced voice, and when his final
song ends, I’m the only one who claps.