by T.C. Powell
I feel the small lump--
The tooth under my pillow;
Lower left canine. Still copper
Under my tongue.
Burke never should’ve tried me.
Stung me once, but
I gave back better.
Maybe he got up after I left?
Doubtful.
Face looked like...
Ground round.
Ridiculous,
A grown man putting a tooth
Under his pillow,
Parents ten years gone,
All alone...
It’s just: boyhood habits die hard.
Can’t sleep.
Burke’s broken face flutters under my eyelids
Like a movie projector.
The door to my bedroom opens.
Soft steps draw near.
Breathing, hovering,
Above me.
It’s here,
For the tooth.
Maybe more.