Uncle Patrick

the bar hasn’t changed, and neon still bleeds a sickly red down the walls. and the smoke hangs in the air like it’s got nowhere better to be. I’m on the stool next to the empty one, the corner spot where Uncle Patrick used to sit with a Campari and Soda glowing in his fist like something he’d cut out of himself.

He’s not here, but I keep the seat clear anyway.

Saturdays were ours.

me with a Coca-Cola going flat and sticky on my tongue, him drowning in the red liquor while Sinatra warped out of the turntable through the scratches. the floorboards and carpets were permanently tacky, the tables gouged deep by men who’d had miserable weeks. we just sat there for hours in the stink of it, until it was enough.

the turntable’s gone now, some digital machine spins discs in its place, colder, clean, entirely wrong. I order the Campari anyway, swallowing that bitter iron taste I was never allowed as a kid, while the winter cold scratches at the windowpane.

I can almost feel the phantom weight of him next to me. the room does its old, slow tilt, and I raise the glass to the empty vinyl stool.

your move, old man, It always was.

bitter red on ice,
the dice rattling on the wood,
an empty vinyl seat.