Your arrival home was never a surprise,
the swashbuckler slash of headlights
gave you away to the pirate crew,
pajama-ed and all sugared up to the
pop-crunch sound of crushed, flung gravel.
Then our dumb-as-shit dog
would bark at your first misstep
on the half-finished wood porch,
head lowered in combat (fearless
defender), hair pulled toward the moon,
until the smallest crack of door
surrendered your smell,
pooled sawdust and lemon linseed,
the car floor on your boot.

It’s that time again for you to come home,
and even that dog knows by now
that the day’s lid is shut, as he’s wrapped
around rabbit dreams in another room.
I can still manage to fool myself, ready to warm a plate,
but this house has no more coins to pull,
no long day to lock out.

At night, when someone’s gone,
each stair to bed’s a broken bone to grind,
the furnace moans its vespers,
the porch light falls,
like a heavy stone.