The Correct Response

The walk home is long and the air is a bite,

mocking the way that I fumbled the night.

I said the wrong word and I saw her face stall,

a quiet collapse in the middle of the hall.

Now the deadbolt clicks home with a heavy, sharp sound,

and the perfect rebuttal is finally found.

The streetlamp is buzzing, a crown for the steam,

while I’m stuck in the wreck of a secondary dream.