Displacement

The conversation dies like a power surge

the moment I step onto the lawn.

They turn their shoulders, a slow-motion verge

of shutting a door before the light is gone.

I am the static in a room full of glass,

the salt in the sugar, the stain on the rug.

They watch me from the corners as I pass,

tightening their circles with a quiet shrug.

A paper plate sits abandoned on a chair,

potato salad yellowing under the heat.

Nobody wants the thing that’s sitting there

exposed and heavy, hardening in the street.