I Saw the End
Every Sunday I’d cross the city to buy our breakfast.
She’d stay in bed – her skin crème freche.
One Sunday, I went two miles for custard, eggs, and a pack of corn tortillas.
When I got home – lights were flashing down our street, bouncing off our tenement window.
There was yellow tape, ambulances, police swarming, people crowding.
It was all over. I could put the eggs down, could keep her sweater, her good CD.
I could head west, get out of the city. The lights were dizzy fireworks. The world was open sky.
And then a cop said a chunk of masonry had fallen and crushed a boy’s skull like a shell.
And she was crème freche,
safe asleep in our bed, her belly
beginning to bubble. I climbed
one hundred steps, tapped eggs
on the edge of the pan, opened
our can of custard.