The same old you, arguing with
her. One moment gargling
window sealed whiskey,
another moment jowls flap and
spit escapes in
slow motion to
She’ll never say, but that’s when it hurts
her the worst. She prefers Chopin and
tea or Mozart and toast. The
whole house can hear
you do it, the moans escape
her in pleasure and discomfort.
Triads remind her of your childhood:
summer jobs, cars, Lorraine.
Major keys recollect kiddy pool baptisms,
minor the first foreign film you
watched with Pastor Gary.
She’s glad you’ve come home to stay
after seasoned travel, but wains in
concern for when you’ll leave, if you
leave. What was Portland like?
And Canada? When did you start wearing a
leather jacket? Drink up,
go into the night till your forehead
rests on her middle C.
She’ll be there when you wake.