He drove the
bent iron poker
into the coals,
the way a man
shoves his words into
a conversation he
barely understands—
mindless, reckless,
nudging the scorching chunks
like Minnesota Fats
at a volcanic billiards table.
She placed the last cigarette
between her lips,
lit it with a strike
of his glare.
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.”
She grabbed her purse
like a cable car passenger
pulling the emergency cord,
one stop over.
He gripped the poker—
a handbrake in his fist.
The house smelled of
stale smoke and country ham,
like his grandmother’s kitchen
might have,
had she lived past twenty-nine.
“Too damn early,”
he thought.
Fireworks splattered the air
as the poker cracked
a smoldering stick.
The front door slammed;
his spit sizzled
where it struck the ash.
— © Rick Baldwin
