The One I Always Skip

She sent it Tuesday, no warning, just: from your last day.

I scrolled past it the way you cross a street mid-block —

committed, deliberate, not looking for the walk

signal. Then I scrolled back. Then I put the phone away.

My mouth is open in it. Someone's joke, I guess.

My face is doing something my face calls content.

Everyone around me looks like they were meant

to be there. I look like someone in a dress

rehearsal for a version of the night

they almost pulled off. All the right gestures placed

just slightly left of where the feeling was.

Three years back and I'm still mid-sentence, chased

by something I was probably about to say —

something like I'm fine, no, really, I'm okay.