Clack of the bell as the door opens
Brisk air gushes through the entryway
A man eases onto the velvet brass-buttoned barstool
The streets are bald
No paper whispers around
No parties of elegant men and women clog the streets in groups of two
No glare of the street lamp through the bar’s
front window
Over the wrap-around window, painted gold letters read “Phillies”
The man leans his arm on the padded edge of
the polished oak bar
And hunches as if to shield his drink
Behind the glossy counter the bartender stands rotating a glass in his hand
Rubbing it with a coarse washcloth
Across the bar the man’s eye catches on a women
Her flaming hair tumbling down her back
A crimson dress hugs her waist
Propped against the bar, examining a cigar
in her hand
Beside the women a man sits patiently waiting
for the arrival of his drink
Harsh and angular
A gray fedora shades his eyes
Two metal tubs of boiling water balance
on the counter
Hissing and growling
The stale odor of beer wanders into his nose
The scorching coffee warms his lips as he brings the cup’s brim to his mouth
The hot liquid slides down his throat and
burns his tongue
He only picks up muffled conversation between the man and women and the occasional demand
For more dark liquor
Desolate
Bland
A Sunday night
A ticking time bomb to the endless week ahead
The three lounge at the bar
Reluctant to travel home
The night rotting away
The bartender dealing thick crystal
with amber whiskey
Plopping cubes of ice
Strictly draining the consistent rations