The old man looks at his hands,
rubbing the back of one hand,
with the other,
reaching out for his beer,
he brings the foamy drink to his lips,
in the bar’s mirror,
our eyes meet,
feeling vulnerable,
I look away,
only in this bar to drink in solitude,
trying to get a grip on who I am,
and what I have become,
lost,
I drain the whiskey in silence,
the discovery already made.
