Timing

The child opened his mouth to say the line—

the joke about the boss, the one we'd perfected

in the break room, the careful cruelty

we'd said like it meant something.

The child didn't know

the man had died.

Didn't know that jokes have an expiration date

that arrives whether you're watching or not.

The coworker's hand moved toward his mouth

and stopped.

His face became a place

I didn't recognize—

not anger, not even grief,

just the specific shape

of hearing your own voice

in the past tense.

The fluorescent lights hummed above us.

The frozen food aisle stretched behind them,

rows of identical boxes,

everything preserved,

everything held still.

The child was waiting still

for the laughter,

for permission to feel clever,

not understanding that some jokes

stop being funny

the moment the subject

stops being a person

and becomes a fact

everyone's trying to forget.