Brake squeals fly like ingots

through this city’s enzyme weave,

revolving door catching a sun glint.

The white-haired man in a dark suit turns

from tending bloodshot treaties in a bar mirror

and joins in, praising what light there is.

Raising another scotch-fueled toast up in praise

of our team, we announce our loyalty

with glints off seven glasses in blue smoke,

sax notes spun inside the liquid flutter

of jazz piano. My thirst for Vermeer light

sated through happy hour by the brunette

tending bar. Our crew palming the bar-rail,

standing ready for the next toast, work-chewed

hands sponging the cool beads off each glass.

The new guy toasts his first paycheck,

his glances following the bartender

as she fills hollows below the muted news.

Her ring-less hands moving bottle to glass,

the telling of what she knows a mural

of brushing silks over rose stems.