Her Poem by Kirby Wright

He waits in the bedroom. Windows face the street she takes to find him. A Dutch Elm on the front lawn reaches into Heaven. He lies across her bed, watching for headlights.

He hears the usual: children being hustled off the street by parents. There are protests. He smells macaroni and cheese on a neighbor’s stove. He is relieved their day has ended. The children think they own the street—they mark the sidewalks with colored chalk, bounce balls, ride bicycles over the asphalt. But when the sun dies, they surrender claim. He owns this corner of the dark world.

He likes the house without light, without sound. He needs the street empty, the house black. The only light he wants is her light, the only sound her sound.

Light enters the room, fades. A car door squeaks, shuts, then footsteps over the dead leaves. He hunts through windows, sees her take the walkway, her face moving through moon and stars.