In the Bar By Sam Harty

This bar stool fits my ass

just right --I proudly state

to no one in particular

as I wait on my Guinness.

They know me here

sitting at the far end

of the bar contemplating

Happy Hour.

But I know the truth.

Happy hour is a myth.

We drink regret like wine

and call it coping.

We clink glasses

like it means something--

like we're celebrating

instead of just surviving.

The bartender knows

when to keep the drinks

coming -the pour steady

the questions light or

when not to ask at all.

I laugh louder than I mean to,

because silence

makes the ghost lean in.

We toast to nothing.

To making it through Monday.

To forgetting just enough

to wake up on Tuesday.

We raise our glasses

to blurred edges,

to old pain with new names,

to the lull between songs

where no one talks

where that silence

becomes a mercy.

And this bar stool--

this stupid, perfect bar stool--

still fits like it was made

for someone who stays way

too long.

Sam Harty is the author of Lost Love Volume I and II. Her work has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. She writes poetry that explores love, loss, and the quiet strength found in healing.