House Pour
He built it himself—
the counter, the backlit shelves,
the right glasses for the right things.
He knows his way around it.
I watch him work.
There's something I want to ask
but the moment keeps slipping past.
He measures, pours,
explains the finish on his house pour.
I look at my phone.
I look up.
I look at my phone.
He slides a glass across.
Try this.
I try it.
Tell him it's good.
He turns back to the bottles.
The light above the bar
is the same as always—
warm, deliberate,
pointing down
at everything except me.
I never asked for the water.
It wouldn't have cost him
anything.