You’re Late

You’re late.
And because today
is Friday
and because Friday
is payday,
I knew you’d be late.
And drunk.
As usual.

But late
becomes later,
evening becomes night,
the house grows
cold and dark
and the anger
that kept me warm
has burned down
to embers
and the fear
that takes its place
is a chill, worse
than any wind
from the south.

You’re Late

What’s happened?
Was there an argument
settled with knives?
Were you attacked,
beaten, robbed?
Are you now
lying broken
in some ditch
by the side
of the road?
Or worse?

Or are you
simply drunk,
as usual?

So here I sit
and wait,
and wait,
with my arms pressed
tight around me
for warmth,
for comfort,
and my face
set in stone,

You’re Late

waiting for the silence
to be broken
by your stumbling,
your fumbling
with the latch,
your muttered curses,
or by a stranger’s
frenzied knocking,
knocking,
knocking.

Two beasts
are chained
inside me,
their names are
Rage and Fear.
In a while
I’ll set one loose,
but for now
I dare not
choose which.