Inheritance

They were shouting over the hood of a sedan,

the kind of sharp, repetitive noise

that ruins a Tuesday. I saw the man

close his fist around a heavy ring of keys.

He wasn't swinging. He was just holding on

until his knuckles turned the color of salt,

pressing the jagged teeth of the brass

into the soft meat of his own thumb.

I’ve seen that red dent before,

in a kitchen where the air was always thin.

I stood by the pump and felt the floor

of my own life give way, a familiar cave-in.

I put my hands in my pockets

and made sure they stayed open and flat.

I won't be the one who locks it.

I won't be the one who lives like that.