My brother Jeff
and I couldn't sleep.
He'd lie and stare
at the ceiling.
I would sit at the
windowsill and watch
the streetlight on
the corner of
Clinton and Warren
change from
green to red.
With every click
of the signal box,
you and dad
got a little louder.
My brother Jeff
and I would open
our door slowly and
creep down the stairs
to the second floor.
We'd rest our little
heads on the hall
carpet and listen.
You and dad
argued about things
we never understood.
So we'd wait there,
the cotton - fiber blend
of the carpet
tickling our ears,
until we could hear
that you had
begun to cry.
That was our cue.
We would stumble
down the stairs
sleepy - eyed
and ignorant.
Jeff would sit
next to dad,
and I would sit
with you.
Not because dad
was the enemy,
but because mommies
aren't supposed to cry.
