my feet tucked under me,
perched on the stool most afternoons.
Pick at the edge of the bar,
splinters coming from a fresh
table wound.
Someone must have thrashed at the
aged wood with their knife-
probably the same guy that held you up
tonight and took your wallet.
My eyes lost and distant, bore holes
into each person that walked in.
People would flutter in and out of
their conversations but
the only thing I could ever mutter
was "why are you here."
And I would ask myself the same question
under my breath
on the whole walk home.
You might be waiting for me
at home by the hearth
glasses perched on your nose
looking at me with those eyes
that seemed to care,
but not enough to ask where I'd been.
Or maybe you already knew.
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