Fifteen Minutes
His grip smells of cigarettes and cheap aftershave.
Outside, the morning wind screams like a child.
In the front room
he shines
rings and bracelets
in the glare of television light.
From the kitchen
I stare
at the pick
buried in his afro.
I watch and wait
glancing one last time
at my shoes, pants, and shirt—
muttering to myself,
I’m fine, I’m fine.
In the bedroom
mom sleeps like a tire
slowly losing air.
The pistol sleeps in the pocket
of his robe.
Last night’s fight,
the red and blue lights,
have given way to silent uncertainty,
and still,
I have fifteen minutes
before the school bus arrives.
Meeting a white friend in the burbs for breakfast
I am the darkest face in the whitest space.
I hold the door for an elderly couple.
I say yes ma’am, no sir, please, and thank you.
I am wearing my best jeans and a collared shirt.
I can’t be seated until my party arrives.
I argue with myself; wait outside.
I feel their eyes
watching me through the window.
I stare at my cell phone, lift it to my ear,
and pretend to talk.
My friend arrives
wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt.
He says
I’m sorry.
–
Curtis Pierce is a former president of the Poetry Society of Colorado and co-editor of the organization’s most recent anthology. His work has appeared in Straight Forward Poetry and Trailer Park Quarterly. He is a graduate of Regis University and writes from Denver, CO.