Kolasch.com

I don’t remember his name.
He probably didn’t have one,
but he always had a drink.
He cradled the glass between his fingers,
swirled himself into the amber liquid
before letting it calm
and taking a deliberate sip.

I knew it was deliberate.
He would lift the glass, and pause—
touching his lips to the rim.
His eyes would close
and I could feel the breath he took.
He never swallowed immediately.
It would sit in his mouth,
the corners of his eyes tired
and moist.

When I went to talk,
he didn’t speak a word.
Perhaps he couldn’t, or wouldn’t.
He would only point
with his eyes into the bottom
of the glass.

JKolasch