One glass, alone on the shelf.
A shaking hand reaches up,
Bringing it down to the
ragged, chipped counter.
Three ice cubes drop, one by one.
Plink, plink, plink.
A Cabinet door creaks open.
Old number seven, resting uneasily,
gripped in a sweaty palm.
The ice, drowned by a generous pour.
The glass brought to quivering lips
in one slow, fluid movement.
The ice, takes in the fresh air.
A steady hand drops the glass.
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