Eight Thirty

Justin Slavinski

Don’t take off your ring.

This is the moment you pull the pin on the grenade.

This invalidates the warranty.

It rattles around like a ringer in horseshoes.

So loose on your finger, you toy with it.

Fidgeting like a kid in a church pew.

Don’t take off your ring.

Turning back is still an option.

It glints in the spray of mercury vapor orange.

The light highlights the edges.

Between untarnished silver and warm flesh lies darkness.

Falling in if you remove it.

Don’t take off your ring.

If not on your finger, where would you put it?

Your pocket?

Your ashtray?

Neither could tarnish it more than this decision.

Drive off, or go up the stairs to her.

Don’t.

Take off your ring.