What I Keep in My Back Pocket

His car just wouldn't fit. The space was maybe

a foot too narrow and I watched him

try it forward, backward, forward again,

the red lights painting his face.

I could thread a needle with that space.

I could do it without looking, could do it

sleeping. I know the exact angle,

the mathematics of it living in my hands.

I stood there. Didn't say a word.

The backup lights kept blinking like he was

asking something, like he was begging

permission or forgiveness and I just

watched the bumper tap the curb,

watched him give up.

That's the thing about knowing how to do

something nobody needs. It makes you

a kind of miser. You get to keep

the one thing you're good at

locked away. Get to feel superior

and useless at the same time.

I drove home the long way.

Parked perfectly.