Dean Sobers
I was standing by the sink,
washing plates with contented ease.
She was beside me, fretting as I cleaned.
It’s possible she was fighting — nay — probable.
But I wasn’t fighting. I never fought. I’ll never know.
His keys clicked and scraped the lock.
There’ll be a clatter, now, of feet.
A little boy racing to the door.
There was a short note, was all. “I can’t live like this.”
He took it without fighting. The errors had been his.
The men fell out of touch.
Six years to the month.
A void, stuffed latterly with old affront.
No fight in them — in I or him — just spite and puzzlement.
I want more, God, so much more than this covenant.