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 since 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 Meaning you had to go up to bed too 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 that when a step creaked They’d heard you but they were too Absorbed in one another sitting crosslegged Knees touching in front of the blazing fire Passing a tall green bottle back and forth And whispering about something Of the greatest importance though whether They were afraid or excited you couldn’t say You watched him reach into his backpack And unwrap a hatchet that was wrapped In a flannel shirt then watched your sister Reach over and pull his long black hair back From his neck as if he had just asked her to Behead him but instead she leaned forward And kissed the scar that shone in the fire Light like ice on the county blacktop