god from the bar around the corner

Эл Стайнберг
you’re the god
from the bar around the corner.
you were there last night,
in yellow light,
at the counter,
holding a glass.
under it –
a damp circle,
a small eclipse
on the dark wood.

now
it’s morning.
you’re standing at the bus stop
in a thin jacket,
not zipped all the way.

wind.
february.

you squint
down the road,
rub the back of your neck
like you barely slept.
through the clear plastic
of your bag
you can see bread
and a bottle of wine.

you look at the board,
at your phone,
into space.
and in that look
there is… nothing.

and yet this city
was once made for you,
cut to your measure,
its distances shaped
to your breathing.

you shift your weight
from foot to foot,
breathe into your hands,
cough.

and all of it
is too human,
too ordinary,
to explain
why,
when the bus arrives
it feels to me
that it’s about to take away
the one
who knows
how it all ends.


© Copyright: Эл Стайнберг, 2026
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