The Laugh I Took Home

Before I laughed
I listened for the size
of everyone else's laughter.

In one group I hurried
to the end of a story.
In another I swallowed
the end.

When the talk thinned,
I gave them something
to laugh at:
me.
For a moment
they all knew what to do.

At home I heard it again,
without the others.
I had put my name
where the laugh belonged.
The laugh came back
in my own voice.

God, listen to yourself.
It sounded like me
on a good night,
quick, exact,
impossible to answer.

I learnt to hear
the breath someone takes
before giving up
on being heard.
I wish I had learnt it
without losing sleep.

When you ask what I think,
I hear the old laugh
clearing its throat.
I start with a word
I can take back:
Perhaps.

You lean closer.
I check your face
for the moment I should stop.
You are still listening.

I have a joke ready
about how long
this is taking.

I let you hear me
looking for the word.