Splashing in the bathroom
awakens her
to a sorrowful knowing.
Her eyes are closed against it.
His baggage rustles.
“Come kiss me good-bye,” she says
blinking blurrily.
Compliant,
he leans and offers
a perfunctory pucker
upon her sour morning lips.
“I’ll call you tomorrow
to tell you whether I’m coming home,”
he says.
“Call me today
to tell me you’ve arrived.”
“I can do that,” he agrees
moving down the hallway.
Eyes clamped closed again,
she hears the firm crunch of
doors and humming rumble of the engine.
As the car leaves,
she leans into her pillow,
wondering at the words,
he didn’t say.
Shawn L. Bird 