What He Dropped

He cleared the bus steps and just let it fall —

the backpack hitting concrete with a crack

of something. He kept walking. That was all.

Arms loose. Three steps ahead. No looking back.

I picked it up. Didn't say anything.

Just — lifted. Heavier than I expected.

The kind of weight that asks for reckoning,

for someone noting it. I just collected

it, carried it to the car. He asked for food.

I said yeah, and drove. The bag sat in the back.

I kept thinking about the thud. The mood

of his arms swinging free. The way the slack

left his whole body when it hit the ground.

The weight of it still in my shoulder. That sound.