The Winner's Share

The words were all correct, a sharp, clean row

of facts I used to make his ego go low.

I won the Tuesday shift, I won the clock,

left him standing there like a bird on a rock.

But the victory tastes like a mouthful of keys,

cold and metallic, a social disease.

I watched him walk out to the edge of the lot,

under a streetlight that’s starting to rot.

He pulled the door shut but it didn't quite take,

leaving a sliver of darkness, a mistake.

Just a gap of black shadow where the latch didn't hit,

and me in the lobby, the king of the pit.