Small Talk

“The weather? Yes it’s been nice”

“hows your wife?”

He spins his knife,

angry lips spit desperation,

“She’s probably in some liquor store parking lot”

—nicotine fingertips, red lips, clear bottle, swollen belly—

“That bitch doesn’t have to love me, but she better love that baby”

OxyContin Chrysler cowboy sticks his knife in the picnic table—

He found evidence of her affair,

blasted voicemails from the garage stereo.

“But I didn’t push her.”

Violent is an undeserved label.

His tobacco spit seeps into the lawn

I can’t look at his face

his blue eyes flashing, furrowed brows, tortured scowl lines like scars

I stare at his scuffed leather boots

crunching dead leaves in my hands

I mumble,

“things will work out.”

His bitter laughter shakes my innocent lie.

“Do you honestly think that?”

Nope