is savage
because a car door slams.
But he does not come home.
Miles after thoughts
have turned from worry,
have turned to rage,
a car door slams.
And she is cutting
celery and more celery,
but no familiar stumble
of the key. Nor
crooked tug and coy
apology. No blurred kiss
to comfort this cruel
hour and quit those
sometime fears to sleep. Surely
love has strayed before.
Love has come and love has gone
and love has been away
before but ultimately
stays. It must be
the errant lover of the girl
across the way who arrives
at such an independent hour,
whose rude feet
startle gravel beyond the borders
of begonias asleep under the back
porch light. Not here.
A thin blond vein
rises from the corner of her jaw
like a crack in a porcelain plate.
A car door slams.
But he does not come home.
This is how the story begins.