The Click and Pull

The fight had drained the air, a flat

tire on the tongue. Then in the car,

borrowed, unfamiliar, that

sharp click. The belt pulled, not too far

but firm across my chest, a clamp,

a little tether, tight and true.

A sudden, unexpected damp

thought: I'm held. But held by who?

Or what? This metal, this small sound,

it locks you in, it holds you fast.

To nowhere safe, or solid ground.

Just buckled in. Until it's past.