by Curtis Graham
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.
Curtis Graham is a current degree candidate at Southern New Hampshire University's Low Residency MFA in Fiction and Nonfiction.