Tonight the ukulele cannot play latin tunes,
the flamenco band has all bedded down in the third wheel,
Chad coddles his daughter who cannot sleep for want of her mother,
and Robert half-sleeps hoping the men will not come again
to steal his money, and take his cigarettes.
The ten dollars from earlier in the day
has been used for one Big Mac, a regular fries,
one bottle of Wild Irish Rose, and a new pack of cigarettes.
The rest was given to a friend who seemed
like he could put it to better use.
All of the beer bottles are empty and
the refrigerator can offer no more.
There is nothing left to say
so you and I sit across the kitchen table
and stare at the wall behind each other’s head.
On the answering machine awaits messages from strange men
trying to take what’s left of the money.
The moon seems full in the sky,
even as it appears a sliver.
The knives are all washed and tucked neatly away.
When I was a child, on nights like this one,
we would run naked through the woods and down
to the little tributary full of crawfish,
and even further through the briars,
torn flesh flapping, down to the lake shore.
The sliver of moon then, no matter how sad,
would prove to me the night sky smiling at us.
We never ran out of things to say back then,
even if I don’t remember any of the conversations now.
The quiet of that wilderness left no room for silence.
Now my legs hurt too much to take that walk.
My tongue is swollen stiff with talking.
I just stare at the wall behind your head,
thinking of the wonders of paneling and paint,
and wonder when you will get up to leave.
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