Key
  
 Three omega wolf cubs wearing defiance, (baseball 
 caps backwards, baggy pants, bulky chains securing 
 empty wallets) in the edgy interval 
 of peach-fuzz chins and croaking voices. I shoo 
 them out of the hospital basement 
 on my way to the change room.
  
 As I exit, the staff entrance door clicks 
 locked behind me. I see them illuminated 
 by the streetlight, circling, 
 a pack on the shore 
 waiting for their prey 
 to exhaust itself 
 swimming. 
  
 Rummaging through my purse, 
 instead of my staff badge
 which unlocks the door,
 I find my key ring.
  
 Ignoring the flutter of hummingbird 
 wings caged by my ribs, I stride 
 through them, chin up, shoulders square,
 make it half way to my car
 before I hear feet 
 slapping closer, loud as a
 beaver tail’s warning.
  
 I spin around, keys protruding 
 from my clenched fist like talons.
 They freeze mid-step, 
 turn to retreat in unison.
 You’re fucking brave when I’m facing you
 hurled at their backs as insurance.
  
 Once locked in my car, shivering
 like birch leaves in the evening breeze,  
 I struggle to stem the news feed stream 
 of alternate ugly endings, 
 texture of blood, broken bone, bruises
 supplied by my nursing experience.
   
 I imagine them 
 laughing at the
 harmless only joking fun
  
 but
  
 still can’t leave a building 
 without clutching keys
 in my hand right hand. 

First appearing in Bywords Feb. 2017