• saturday night. living room. no plans.

    tonight is good.
    tonight you are not worried
    about the tomato sauce
    poured down the kitchen sink,
    tonight you have a book that you have read three times
    open on your lap.


    debbie gibson is playing on the boombox,
    mom and dad are singing along,
    tapping to the percussion and looking at each other
    in the way only parents do.


    you wish tonight, more than most nights,
    for a flux capacitor
    or at least a few more fantasies
    about the days when mom’s hair was poofy
    and dad’s bands were new,
    when they were getting used to making mistakes,
    wish you could’ve at least sat next to them
    in a biology class.


    sometimes tomorrow doesn’t scream into your ear,
    sometimes phones are slipped into bathroom drawers
    not just face down, not silenced.
    new socks have to be bought occasionally
    and you don’t mind having to sort them
    at the moment.


    the kitchen counter is spotless,
    vacuum lines make the living room floor
    look like a swarthy lawn,
    and the black cat is staring at you
    through the front door window
    begging admittance.


    tonight you’ll let him in,
    tonight, you’ll hold him to your chest,
    scratch his ears in synchronization
    with the cowbell and the synthesizers
    and aging, moving feet
    of two lovers who have started to dance.