The Exact Sound

The neighbor's backpack,

a cheap kind,

silver teeth,

rattling down,

a sharp, quick rip.

And then it was there,

behind my eyes,

that news report from years back,

the body. The sheet.

The careful, flat glide

of the attendant's hand.

The exact, horrible slide

of the heavy plastic, sealing

whatever was left.

The sound, it lodges.

Like a shard.

In the brain's soft tissue.

My neighbor, just

going to work, probably.

His zipper.

And I'm back,

on that linoleum floor,

the blue light.

Still holding my breath.