It's 3 AM,
and the front door opens.
I hear his keys jingling.
I can feel him stumbling around my living room,
ruining the carpet with his mud-stained shoes
ruining the quiet with his voice.
3:03,
and he opens up the fridge—
how can he be hungry after all that he has eaten?
He swigs from the milk jug
groans in the fluorescent light.
I turn and hug my dried-mascara pillow,
and try to fall asleep.
3:13,
and he's coming down the hall now.
He passes by Delilah's room—
don't wake her up don't wake her don't—
Old wood creaks as his hand touches the door
not a gentle touch; he is catching his
balance. He doesn't bother touching Isaac's door
or Fallon's; he's steady on his feet enough
to make the rest of the journey.
3:16
His weight slumps down beside me,
his shoes still on, and his tie somewhat on,
stupidly straightened by the hands of
someone young—
Well, younger than me,
and he throws his arm around me;
his breath is on my neck.
Her perfume creeps around me;
it is cheap and latex-tainted.
He whispers, "Love you, baby."
He snores.
3:19
I am weeping on my pillow,
praying that the children still are
sleeping in their beds. He said that he loves
me. Well, if love's a referendum,
then the vote is swayed; it's swayed
And if love is his compensation,
then I've paid, oh God,
I've paid.
