When Josh lingers at the end
of the workday, I think of Stand
By Me: kids’ backs covered
in leeches in the woods–
can’t push away or peel
him off, his limb-thin branches
that walk out into the dark
parking lot and back in
to bug us, again and
again, scribbling his
footprints all over concrete
in a scuffmark infinity.
I have never seen someone
so happy to have shot someone.
He returned one
weekend from Albany,
roaring with energy, eager
to tell the whole office
that burglars stole half-
million dollar lamps
from his house, but he’s
glad they did not get it
all, and how he perched
for several hours on his
staircase, alongside the fading
sun– the story convoluted
and convulsed in his hands,
the several times I heard
it told in the hallway,
in the kitchen, showing
photos of hideous antiques.
He claims to know they would
be coming. And that he
was getting updates
on the critical person’s
condition, and the words
come bursting out of his
mushroom cloud mouth
that he would have loved.

(originally published in Toasted Cheese Literary Magazine, Spring 2024)