Just me and the dog, you away, the long day
anticipating later when it might be this way longer.
The house quiet, your CDs tilt in stacks, awaiting
someone to play them. No spillway for griping,
grimness pools then trickles into forced lines.
This would have been me had we not met,
the children tucked back unseen. I enact
our routine, egging myself on, for if not,
how else to do this? I would like to boast
on your return of some brave deed,
but the only brave thing I will have done
is fill the big bed as much as one can.
Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She is a poetry editor for Minute Magazine and has seven chapbooks and a full-length collection out or forthcoming. Her individual poems can be found in Cordite, The Cincinnati Review, The Carolina Quarterly, Fifth Wednesday, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Fourth River, The Ekphrastic Review, The Free State Review, Posit, and more.