Irish Pub

He sits with his back to me,
blue jacketed and tieless,
likely in his mid to upper fifties.
I see his face because of the
mirror at the back of the bar.
I can't help but notice how
slowly and deliberately he
reaches for his glass of beer,
as if he could miss it if he
is not careful and reach
past to where it is not. He
stares too long in the mirror.
He closes his eyes but a
slight wobble pops them open.
It's afternoon at an Irish Pub
in Midtown Manhattan.