From the pitcher and into another pitcher
then a third. Some obscure theory
about the particles
needing to be activated. The water useless
if it’s still. The stillness a kind
of rot. The rot a kind of terrible
thing that you can never move away
from, like the insides
of your own body.
The patrons don’t know the ex-boyfriends
do this. Tommy most
meticulously. Anxiously
even. As if all of humankind might live
to be suddenly not just immortal
but good.
If the water is just the way the theory
says. Tommy lines up
a fresh glass,
a refill from the third pitcher, Terror,
he calls it. Because it’s what he
feels. He grabs
the silver handle in his own fingers,
dried and chalked
so there’s no sweat,
no chance he might drop that which has been
worked up so carefully
and with thought. Terror,
terror, terror: his mantra. He repeats it and looks
at the clock, even though his shift
never ends.