House on Brightside Court

Oldest child, last one home,
I locked the door,
turned out the front light
that brightens our three-step stoop
and reaches and reveals
the cracking concrete and decay
of the driveway.

Little Alyssa wanted some water
before bed,
so I turned to the fridge—
a week old, half-eaten rotisserie chicken,
fat gelled over, better off in the freezer.
There’s plenty of ice when you’re not here
and I don’t have to hear Mom bitch about
you chewing it, the sound of your frustrations.
I turned off the maker this morning, good.

I went out to dinner again
‘cause you weren’t around
to do whatever it is that you do
since Mom works seventy hours.
I bought sugar today—
you know how she loves her coffee.
I set the automatic brewer
for quarter of five in the morning.
I hope that’s early enough for her
to fill her cup
before another twelve hour day
to come home to TV and your snoring—
morning comes quickly, sometimes four hours.
She’ll iron her scrubs and spray perfume
to extinguish the decay
that surrounds
this household
gone astray.