He creeps to me,
in the moonlight,
when the wind
sweeps over the hillside.
With cascading scents
of burnt melon and
crackling leaves,
he creeps to me
on bruised tendencies.
He echoes hushed 
feathery whispers,
on lips of dripping 
love.
Yet, it is not enough.

She sat on the porch,
sun dirt shined down
while she chewed her fingernails
down to their bloody nubs.
Nothin to do or say,
while he packed his bags inside.
 
Deep in the cracked house,
his swirled and broken thoughts
of no-goodness, non-righteousness,
unworthy of love-ness
etched and scratched at
the drab walls of his prison head.
 
Out in the backyard,
little girls blew bubbles
none the wiser of
Momma’s troubles as
they skipped rope
and shot at the moon.
 
In the morn, they’ll ask
“Where’s Dad?”
And she’ll choke back her coffee,
wash the burnt dishes
and fold some laundry,
still wrinkled with memories
of what was supposed to be.