nothing unusual about the man on the bar stool next to me
a work shirt with mud on the left sleeve
yellow fingers from smoking too many cigarettes
a pair of well worn black Harley Davidson boots
broken glasses held together with white tape
a raspy smoker’s cough
staring in his beer glass for almost an hour
as if it was a crystal ball
is he pondering the existence of God?
bemoaning the end of his marriage?
worrying about being laid off from his job?
thinking about a son killed in Iraq?
or
is he just angry because his beer is flat?