Saturday night.
I should be on the cusp of sleep,
but am awake, and you,
soon enough adult,
are off on a dark road home.
You are on my mind,
but I am not on yours,
unless you think there might be trouble
when you return,
both early and late.
You stand on the doorstep silencing the key
and I stand inside silencing my heart.
The door announces itself open with its unoiled voice,
and I ask myself,
should I say ‘hello’ from beyond the couch
out of the a. m. shadow of the room?
More than anything I want to hug you,
to smell even your cigarette hair,
to breathe you in like a swimmer breathes
after a long held breath.
Instead,
I slink to the stairs and up,
and let my faked untroubled absence say,
I trust and love you.
1992