Evening: A Poem

Pot roast cooks while the

TV drones; my jaw clenches.

A fly, somehow, got

 

in, and it buzzes

and lands on the lamp, walking

its silent feet up

 

the shade and you have

asked me a question about

visiting down Maine

 

while our baby sleeps,

but suddenly stirs, her brow

furrowed, voice plaintive

 

until the nightmare

passes—she clutches my shirt

and releases it.

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