he emerges from the driver’s side of his stalled minivan as if you’ve been given too much information.  he holds a hammer in the looseness of his stung left hand.  for a moment it seems he’ll attack windows.  instead, he cries.  his shoulders give him away.  not a car horn sounds.  this is a kindness.  someone has an egg timer.  I locate the itch thrown off course by my lover’s legs and imagine her happy.  across town a silent alarm is pressed by the anonymous smoker of wedding cigarettes.  the bomb squad arrives before the bomb squad knows it and you join

this bomb squad.