Late nights filled with empty

wanderings, voices blaring, blurring;

I come home drained, hoping for something

to soothe the day clean, like sheets pulled taut on a bed waiting.

I hear children scream, complaining, something I have done,

some word said or not said.

This dance in middle age,

carrying baggage wrapped in skin.

The door of my dream snaps open

and no one is there.  My daughter’s father

is somewhere far away,

pursuing whatever it is

that’s chasing him.  I see him

in that gray cotton bathrobe.  He smells of this

and other things.