Classic Poem

He sleeps late, later than a man
should, according to her books or

the looks she gives him when at last
he emerges cheerful from their room.

Does he sleep late to escape her,
to live outside where what sings

does not also snarl, its chatter
welcome or unheard, not a racket

of anger he strains to interpret
as if he didn't witness her cacophony

of crime? Why can't she understand
his sleep apart from her, unburdened

by a father's slow retreat those
afternoons she found him snoring

after school? Or maybe he sleeps late
to give her time — what she most craves

more of as she hears him stirring,
already reaching for the robe —

Used by permission of the author.