Lucas Stensland

Meatpacking District

We're all crowded around the far side of the bar, away from the big front window. Cars passing by reflect piercing shots of daytime, and this is a good place to wait things out. Edgar, a retired steelworker, keeps telling me I'm a screw-up with no personality. Having recently given up smoking, I still take little breaks from drinking—go outside, have a Tic Tac and check emails on my phone. "Hey," I say to Edgar as I rise, "I'm going around the corner and see if I can find anything to trip on." He laughs and starts singing a John Fogerty song. The bartender faintly smiles at me, adjusts her pink bikini top and yawns.

my beer
and life half gone
midday light