The joke wasn't even—it was about a parrot

The joke wasn't even—it was about a parrot.

But I laughed until my throat felt like a scraped knee.

Now I'm in the back of this Prius, watching the meter

and my own face in the glass, a pale, blurred thumbprint.

The driver hits a pothole. My jaw snaps shut.

I see his eyes in the mirror—they are perfectly flat,

like two coins on a dead man's face.

The beaded seat cover is pressing into my legs,

a grid of small, round aches that I’ll carry inside

long after I pay the fare and pretend to be normal.