Perfect Bar

Ancient city, bursting, alive
Wide avenue, trampled hourly
Shoulders against shoulders
I walked its throbbing expanse
Until drained.
I stepped off into a lobby,
Hushed, cool as a tomb,
Air still as stone,
Walls lined in dark,
Lacquered wood,
Sleek marble underfoot,
Amplifying each step.

In the corner, beneath stairs
Was a cold slab of stone,
Framed with glass bottles
Of liquids in varying hues,
And two empty, narrow stools.
A balding, portly man
Stood guard, aproned,
His eyes, watery green,
Beckoned kindly, so I
Slipped onto a smooth seat.

In the unlikeliest space,
Cramped and narrow.
Yet an oasis from the
Whirl and bustle around,
A respite from chaos,
And he, silent as Eurydice,
For we spoke different tongues,
Gestured with his hands,
To refresh my throat, and
Indeed, my spirit.

With silent wave of hand
I replied to him, and into
An empty glass, devoid of
Adornment, he poured
Clear, tawny liquid
Trimmed only with a
Thin sliver of lemon.
I sat there, not alone, really,
For he stood guard over me,
And replenished me, with
Silence and fire.

The din of the avenue
Could be barely discerned
In this cramped, narrow space,
Underneath a little-used stair.
Almost the perfect bar,
I said silently, for I had
Drink and seat and server,
But then, across the room,
Doors slid open, sunlight and
Noises flooded in,
And another weary walker,
Approached for a respite,
Sliding onto the empty stool
Next to mine.

Yes, it might be the perfect bar.