The Toll

The voice on the other end was thinner

than I remembered.

Two years of silence makes a person

sound like a ghost

asking for a ride to the station.

I said yes, and felt the marrow

seem to drain out of my shins.

It’s not the favor. It’s the way

the anger has nowhere to sit anymore.

The screen door has warped since the frost.

I have to yank the handle until the wood groans

just to get the deadbolt to throw.

A heavy, final click.

The price of peace is just a different way

of being locked in.