He shoved the
iron poker deep
into the coals,
like a man forcing
his words into
a conversation he
barely understands—

she said he always did—
roughshod, without thought.

He poked and cracked coals,
chunks splitting and rolling
like Minnesota Fats at
a volcanic billiards table.

She set the last cigarette
on freshly painted lips,
lit it with 24 years of
simmering resentment.
Her fingers scraped
the final bite of honey biscuit
breakfast from the saucer,
lifting it to her tongue.

“There’s chicken in the
fridge from last night.
I’ll be late again.”

Her purse strap tightened
around her hand like a
cable car passenger
pulling the emergency cord
a stop too late.
“Pull. Pull hard,”
she told herself.

Stale smoke and country ham
stained the air. When he shut
his eyes, he imagined
his grandmother’s kitchen
smelling the same way
had she lived past twenty-nine.
“Too damn early,”
he muttered.

Fireworks splashed the air
as the poker smashed against
a crackling stump.
The front door slammed;
his spit sizzled
where it struck the ash.

•••