This is as bad as the midnight
cry of child - its mother refusing
to rise and suckle. It is the touch,
not merely unreturned, but neglected.
The actualization it will never return
fulfilled. Isn't this your night?
The vision of burden surrendered?
Like sweat poured out, seeps
into pillow until that stark realization
crashes you awake. The woman
in bed wants your demise in this
sudden callout - some heathen with gun
demanding rights and considerations
you know will never come. She
turns to avoid your glance as you
throw on vest and request that
futile prayer. This night's promise
and potential to perish is her
anticipated freedom, a personal descent
into hell - you'd just as soon she would
depart without warning, notice or revocation.
Two sons asleep, not concerned
with events, actions or parents or mother
mad beyond reason. So you leave.
Locking door behind and cursing yourself
you never changed lock, key or sheets.
The house, now, suddenly behind you.