The horizon drowned the sun
hours ago, when he leaves for work.
It's not quite the witching hour,
but almost. They pay them better
on the midnight shift.
I listen to the sleepers breathe,
the dream whimper and snuffle
of the big dog, wheeze of her pup,
the soft rise and fall of my daughters'
nightgowned chest—a mad drone.
I fill the house with sound.
TV and music, dishwasher, dryer.
I hum to myself, tap and fidget.
Nerves make my fingernails disappear.
I wonder after, where they went.
In the morning he's worn— makes
eggs with onions and goes to bed
in the light leaving me only
the lingering smell
of his breakfast time dinner.
I feel almost always alone.