P R N D

A downpour drumming on the rooftop,

engine running, car, idle, interior

bathed in the pungent intoxicating spices

radiating from the carry-out

in the passenger seat. Inside the Taj,

neon beacon in a strip mall

dark with the common sense of folks

long gone home, red lamps

glowered. A pair of headlights

glared back. A downpour drowning

out its own drumming, so loud

I could barely make out the whispered venom

streaming from a mobile into my right ear.

She was saying something about something

as I reached across the steering column

with my left hand, as if my left ear

had been bent by the loudspeaker of the law.

Engine off, everything—the car, the carry-out, etc.—

went cold. I tossed the phone into the passenger seat,

put her into reverse, backed up, out,

and drove home with my double order,

her running commentary as undertow.
 

Copyright Credit: Tyrone Williams, "P R N D." Copyright © 2017 by Tyrone Williams. Used by permission of the author for PoetryNow, a partnership between the Poetry Foundation and the WFMT Radio Network.
Source: PoetryNow (2017)