See the dark traffic of morning
disperse, the windshield blurred by rain
and the rhythmic tick of a turn signal.
See the bartender wipe down his bar
as if he were circling the moon’s orbit.
The neon open sign in the window reflecting
blue and red against the pallor of his face.
See the television flicker a movies end
and the waitress nod her goodbye—
no words between them now.
After years of repetition, this is the silence
they have come to. From Monday night’s
football crowd to the middle-aged couple
who treat themselves every Thursday.
Reduced to the stripped down
directives of two Coronas and order up—
What more would they say?
Their thoughts come on
like the hot slap of meat on metal
and just as quickly fade. No words now,
only the slow exhale of another night’s routine,
the pull of a chain to quiet lights, the rattle of keys
to bolt out the sun.