The Transient
Do you remember the summer night
When you were a child there was a knock
On the door a friend of your older sister’s
Who was driving cross country it was late
But your mother insisted on warming up
A plate for him it was obvious he hadn’t eaten
In days he was so hungry he apologized
For forgetting his manners to which
Your mother said Boy eat she stayed up
Awhile stifling her yawns but your shy father
Tired from the quarry shook his hand
And wished him goodnight upstairs
You pressed your ear to the heat register
But in all that tin piping their voices were
Distorted so you crab-walked back down
The stairs sure when a step creaked that
They heard you but they’re too
Absorbed in one another sitting crosslegged
Knees touching before the blazing fire
Passing a tall green bottle back and forth
And whispering about something
Of the greatest importance though whether
They’re afraid or excited you can’t say
You watch him reach into his soiled backpack
And unwrap a hatchet that was wrapped
In a flannel shirt then watch your sister
Reach over and pull his long black hair back
From his neck as if he has just asked her to
Behead him but instead she leans forward
And kisses the scar that shines in the fire
Light like ice on the county blacktop