Brian Fitch

Lunch Break

dead dial tone . . .
keys hang in the ignition

Dad had to get the manager to let him in. As the manager unlocked the door, he muttered under his dirty mustache, “Two-dollar fee.” Dad looked around the room. A box of trash bags that wasn’t there earlier on top of the dresser. The drawers empty. His shirts and jeans scattered across the floor and twin-size mattresses. His Reeboks where he left them by the door after he swapped out for his steel toes. Now, the blue screen glow of the television projects a shadow of him with a cigarette ablaze onto the flickering wall.

foreclosed land-contract . . .
a wedding ring
on the night-stand