Somewhere in Florida

[tonywalt]

It’s late enough that the bartender
has stopped wiping down the taps,
left me with this glass and the mirror
behind it. The place is near empty.
A television hums above the bottles,
muted. A hurricane spinning somewhere,
but not tonight, not here.

I never called. Years.
A slow forgetting, then
too much time to turn back.
There was always work, distance,
or just the comfort of silence.

Now a man two stools down
laughs too loud into his phone—
Love you, Ma—
and I swallow what’s left
in the glass.

If they’d asked me why,
I’m not sure what I’d say.
Nothing new, nothing
that mattered now.

Outside, palm fronds
stir the dark like an old voice
I can’t quite name.

Tomorrow I’ll drive north.
Another town, another room.
Tonight, though, this bar,
this drink,
the flat echo of a closed door