The Uninvited Guest

The woman on the phone said his name

like it was a bill I hadn't paid.

Then I saw him, or someone like him,

crossing the asphalt by the hardware store.

That same nylon jacket, the color of a bruise

or a jar of old mustard left in the sun.

The collar was slick with the oil of his skin,

smelling of menthol and a car he once lived in.

He didn't see me, and I’m glad for the win.