I can almost hear the rattle of the ice
from the photograph she sent me
tending bar at her father's house
somewhere in NY state,
a role she plays
because she did it
for a living at
several places
and she likes the
idea of having a purpose
when she goes to see
the man she
supposedly claimed to our work mate
had died when she was still a kid
the sound of the rattling ice filling my head
as I look at the
pictures of a place I never saw in real life,
she telling me she
could not meet her
because of this obligation,
her life spread out
in the parade of bottles,
each drink unique
still she needs to sip.
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