Inheritance of the Jaw

The agent on the line has a voice like a drone.

I’m holding the phone like a weapon, alone

in the hallway where the radiator sighs.

I feel the heat rising up to my eyes.

My knuckles are white on the Bic, a cheap pen,

and I hear that sharp click in my throat once again.

The sound he would make when the math wouldn't fit,

a dry, locking snap before he would quit.