The Softest Word

He waved at me by the bins of galvanized nails,

the same hand that took the rent and never came back.

I watched his grin, the way a person exhales

when they know they’ve slipped through the crack.

I said, "It’s fine," before he even had to ask,

letting the debt just dissolve in the aisle.

It’s easier to wear a polite, plastic mask

than to stand there and hate him for a while.

Outside, a bag of rock salt had split on the curb,

melting into a gray slush in the freezing rain.

I am the one who keeps the peace, undisturbed,

while carrying the grit of a dull, quiet pain.