blek keyt

by Justin Hyde

overnight cook
at the truck stop
is a large old man:
thin limbs
wheelbarrow gut,
back brace
worn over his apron
holding him together.

i’ve seen him
and he’s seen me,
but we've never said
word one
to each other.

tonight
i passed him
smoking a cigarette
on my way
into the truck stop.

blek keyt,
he said
in a thick
bosnian accent
and
crossed himself.

what's that?
i turned around
and asked.

blek keyt,
he said again.
when you pass
it feels like
a blek keyt
walks in front of me.
the tip of his cigarette
went red
lighting up
ash grey eyes
boring into me.

i stood there
hands in my pockets
brain turning over
like the tumblers
of a strange lock.

old coot’s
serious,
i finally thought
to myself.

then i said:

meow

and walked
in.