The crisp settle of the door behind me stirred me
just before I found where to put my keys.
I stepped forward with each kick.
The cold sound of soles landing on wood,
then my feet into the gnarled carpet,
curling my toes in it while I
crinkled my nose up, and
it tickled. I laughed aloud, then shushed
with the swinging of a door upstairs. The mean whisper
of a woman whose life stuck to her like cigarette smoke.
Then the slow footsteps of a gait like grass-stains –
persistent, smearing-feet-along steps.
I quickly gathered up my things, my keys from the table,
my shoes from the floor.
I realized I’d gone into the neighbor’s house
just like I had the night before.
Dennis Reavis grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and is currently studying journalism, Spanish, and French at the University of Arkansas. Reavis has been published in Verdad Literary Magazine, Gemini Magazine, and Nimrod International Journal among others.