The Other Pulse

The dryer in the corner has a heavy, lopsided soul,

a thud of wet denim that shakes the folding table.

I’m watching the glass door spin its rhythmic control,

waiting for a signal I’m not sure I’m able

to read. Across the aisle, a man pulls a sleeve

back from his wrist to check the plastic clock.

There it is—the same wine-colored stain, I believe,

a jagged little map, a key inside a lock.

He has my arm, but his shirt is pressed and white.

He doesn't have the grease under his nails or the tilt

of a man who spent his twenties chasing the light

only to end up neck-deep in the silt.

I want to ask him if he’s the one who stayed,

the version of me that didn't let the fire go out.

But the dryer stops. The debt is finally paid.

I take my warm, damp things and leave him to his doubt.