we sit in old, familiar bars, with preachers & cowboys & lovers the same —
sanctuaried dive bars: home to secrets & gossip, familiar stories & prayers, like
weathered, worn journals & crumpled-up love letters.

we sit in bars with strangers who will later become pool & dance partners,
whose lives thread quickly into the tapestry of ours.
then suddenly happy hour becomes a sacred ritual, a third space between
the good & the mundane;
well drinks & pretzel bites & house wine turn into a common shared meal
& “i’ll pick up your tab — don’t sweat it.” feels as warm as an easy sunday afternoon.

somewhere in this place, two friends share their last drink
& in another corner, a woman finalizes a divorce;
down the hall, two men who have been friends for fifty years play darts
as the small-town lawyer prays they’ve called it right.
the man by the window contemplates who he chooses to love
& the bartender works their last shift before returning to school.

so if you get there before i do, grab us a table in the far left corner &
put the first round under my name — closing time’s whenever we choose:

welcome to the great american bar scene.