Closing checklists are bridles.
The door locks on a timer.
Once, sweeping the parking lot,
I found a pair of women’s black underwear,
abandoned in the night.
I had no story to lend them,
or the weight of some metaphor.
Just evidence left behind
when someone kept moving.
I keep moving.
Let timers do their work.
Past the skinny boy
playing harmonica on the bridge,
collecting tips in his shoe.
The man, five paces west,
jaw chewed raw,
liquor stamped into his face
like a punch clock
about to roll midnight.
I learned early
what stays safest is sealed.
Doors shut.
Windows covered.
In artificial light I did fine,
my childhood room tight as a toolbox,
from step-mother, father,
and the extremes of their weather.
I worked paper the way men work wire.
Fold, crease, press flat.
No guessing.
Follow the lines even when they weren’t there.
Angelfish.
Swan.
Dragonfly.
Held their shape,
once you taught them how.
They stayed boxed under the bed,
layered in dust,
my childhood stored like spare parts
waiting out a flood
no one talked about
until it passed.
Out here nothing seals.
The bridge holds.
The world follows slow,
just behind me.
No walls to press against.
Open water. Open air.
Feb 7
Feb 7, 2026 at 2:35 PM UTC
Closing checklists are bridles.
The door locks on a timer.
Once, sweeping the parking lot,
I found a pair of women’s black underwear,
abandoned in the night.
I had no story to lend them,
or the weight of some metaphor.
Just evidence left behind
when someone kept moving.
I keep moving.
Let timers do their work.
Past the skinny boy
playing harmonica on the bridge,
collecting tips in his shoe.
The man, five paces west,
jaw chewed raw,
liquor stamped into his face
like a punch clock
about to roll midnight.
I learned early
what stays safest is sealed.
Doors shut.
Windows covered.
In artificial light I did fine,
my childhood room tight as a toolbox,
from step-mother, father,
and the extremes of their weather.
I worked paper the way men work wire.
Fold, crease, press flat.
No guessing.
Follow the lines even when they weren’t there.
Angelfish.
Swan.
Dragonfly.
Held their shape,
once you taught them how.
They stayed boxed under the bed,
layered in dust,
my childhood stored like spare parts
waiting out a flood
no one talked about
until it passed.
Out here nothing seals.
The bridge holds.
The world follows slow,
just behind me.
No walls to press against.
Open water. Open air.
- New Orleans, late century.
Request permission to use this poem