The Scoreboard is Broken

The phone buzzed in my hand—'no worries'—

which is the worst thing you could have said.

It means I took the high ground and found it

covered in trash. I found the receipt just now

in my coat pocket, the one that still smells

like the deep fryer and that heavy, yellow grease.

I remember the way I leaned over the table,

how I made my voice into a small, sharp thing.

There was a plastic steak knife on your plate,

jagged and useless against the gristle,

and I just kept sawing away at the air between us.

I won. You went quiet. You let me have it.

Now I’m standing in the hallway of my house

holding a scrap of thermal paper, realizing

that being right is just another way

of being entirely alone in a very small room.