Engine

My nephew said his friend

stopped showing up to school.

Kids were being mean. I opened

my mouth—something wise forming,

uncle-shaped, responsible—

and Brian Pulaski walked

back into my head. Seventh grade.

I made his last name into a chant.

Three syllables bouncing off the lockers

all the way to the bus loop.

I wasn't standing nearby.

I wasn't watching it happen.

I was the engine.

His backpack going down the hall

faster than a kid should have to walk.

I closed my mouth.

Had nothing clean to give.