Jessie stopped by last night to keep me company,
then fell asleep on the couch, poor thing.

I swept and straightened, quiet as I could,
closing doors in my peculiar way:
fast to keep them from squeaking
then slow at the last moment --
twisting the knob so the latch misses the frame,
releasing it gently to catch, inaudible.

It's an art;

a pas de deux with mechanisms I practice most nights
when you're upstairs, dreaming.



I hate the long oppressive silence of these summer days,
the hundred sounds of your absence:
you, not singing;
your chair, not squeaking;
the mute floorboards, faucet, stairs.

But more, I hate the silence at two a.m. that should be there but isn't,
the one muffled by dishes clattering in the sink,
and cabinets closed with abandon.



So the next time you're away I think I'll have friends over,
just to sleep:
a couple in the living room, one by the television
maybe one on the kitchen counter
or a few end-to-end in the hall.

Then every night I'll tiptoe around the house,
dancing with the doors
and not waking you --

enjoying, in that moment each lock engages,
a comforting silence; a silence we share.