I Only Heard Four Seconds

I borrowed Marcus's car to move a couch,

brought it back Sunday afternoon.

He said the tank's full, here's the key.

Nothing about the voice memo. Soon

as I turned the engine on,

the screen lit up—white on blue:

Voice Memo 003.

And his voice came through

mid-sentence, mid-something, not calm.

I hit the button. Four seconds.

I drove to his building.

Handed the keys. He reckons

everything went fine, I said yes,

he seemed good. We stood a beat.

Then I walked back to my car

and sat in it. The street

was loud. The window fogged.

I kept thinking: four seconds

of a door I opened by accident.

A room. It beckons

or it doesn't—I can't tell.

I don't know what he was saying.

I don't know what I heard.

I've been not-saying

it for two days now.

Marcus doesn't know.

I don't know if I'll tell him.

White on blue. The glow

of a screen, and then the silence

when I cut the sound.

That's the thing I keep coming back to—

how quick I put it down.