Old Jokes, New Silence

The plaster behind the bar is cracked—

like peeling skin, just like my memory.

He laughs, the bartender, loud and loose,

telling the joke again, the one

about the time I tripped and fell

in front of that girl who never knew

how hard it was for me to stand.

The punchline hangs, stiff, like the cold air

before the storm. I smile tight,

but inside something rolls over,

sinking.

Funny once. Not now.

I watch the plaster chip,

and the joke breaks,

falls flat against the noise.