by Curtis Graham

I smoke.

Brakes scream nearby with the intensity and duration of an Incoming.

An incoming what, I can’t say. I’ve never been bombed, not personally, not directly.

I just know it when I hear it

And I know I look too long. I peer, even after it’s just brakes again.

I have no right to write about some things.

A cigarette gives you enough time to think about nothing and everything.

There is a quiet waiting, and at the same time, a coming about.

I consider the language I’ll use to write this poem.

The thing is not even a thing, but I catch hurled accusations like a grenade.

Posturing and pretension.

I throw the grenade to myself

From my one hand to my other.

Look here, feel me—a toss.

Stop looking, leave me—a catch.

I left the side door propped, to let myself in.

Instead I walk around front, where other people go. I fish my keys and hover the fob over the red eye.

It buzzes and clangs and spits the door open just enough

For me to walk in

Like I’m a part of something.

Like I belong here.