Slouching on a barstool sits a man, lamenting over the final few drops of his draft. As he looks in the glass the universe shows his reflection. With sweaty fingers sliding into, and back out of, his pockets he fails to discover any remaining currency to set his situation right. So, his loose arm reaches for the last drip, once again seeing himself, now with an empty glass. His knees buckle when he tries to step off the robust stool. Tipping the bartender I clasp the handle of my glass, savor my last sip and I see the universe.
*if it is at all possible I would like feedback, either by email or a comment on here about how this poem comes across to you.
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