Sunday, April 13, 2003

Night fell like a sock

Night fell like a sock
he’d worn three days running. “Honey,”
he ventured again, the word
hollow in his mouth, an earnest irony -
“isn’t there any more I could do?”
She turned on him with a night-new glare
and clenched her jaw. “There’s nothing,”
she told him, “that you can do
that I can’t do myself twice better.”