Joe's

I am there. It is night. The train rumbles in the distance. I question if I were on it, would I feel any different? Instead, I am here. I gulp wine and look at the neon. The guy next to me stares blankly into his whiskey glass. The barman is polishing the glasses, handling them like precious eggs. He sees my eyes, stops, and refills my glass. The reflection is kind. I think of bikes, warm kitchens, hard candy, and them. They have been gone for a while now. I am terrified of losing the only pieces of them that I still have left. I have hazy dreams of things being taken away; a pot, a glass, a button tucked into my jacket pocket. They communicate with me through the things they possessed. In a way, I speak to them now. I wonder how many years the whiskey man regrets.