You hit the back-alley bar, find it empty.

You like it here—broken jukebox,
string lights, the history of rings on every table.

You could be almost anyone—

stepfather, ex-girlfriend, narrator
concealing an I. No matter. The readers

loved the mystery of you, the shadow of you.

Anything more would’ve been too much.
You don’t know the sound of your voice,

the color of your eyes, what you’ve lost,

what happens next. But tonight
is yours. That disco ball of moon

in the smudged window, yours.

The bartender puts down the dishrag, asks
your drink. You open your mouth to speak.