The Scrape of the Win

We were in the aisle with the bread and the salt

when I finally found the word that would bleed.

I brought up his father, I made it his fault,

and watched him go quiet with terrible speed.

I won. I watched him just turn and walk out,

leaving a half-empty carton of eggs on the belt.

There wasn't a reason to linger or shout,

but I hated the way that the victory felt.

He looked smaller today by the deli and fruit,

a man made of cardboard, graying and thin.

I’m holding the trophy, this bitter black fruit,

and scrubbing the salt-sting away from my skin.