(In)audience

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, and then (at the last moment)
slow --
twisting the knob so the latch just misses the frame,
and releasing it gently to catch, inaudible.

It's an art;

a pas de deux I practice many 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,
muffled by doors closed with abandon
and dishes clattering in the sink.



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 pretending that it's you I'm not waking --

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