Because of the impending storm, all smart dames
get in a three-hour run before dinner, returning home
disgruntled, not ever knowing quite what it was
that pissed them off. Their husbands' children greet
them at the elevator door with a "Hi, Mom," in which
Mom is forever in quotes.
Because of the impending storm, embraceable young things
snuggle through awkward reunions and poignant finales
as best they can. They hear people's voices before they see
the people themselves, and yet they somehow know exactly
what they are saying. They know the tops of their boyfriends'
heads better than they know their faces.
Because of the impending storm, strings of anecdotes lose
their sting and the men in the living room subside to vague
forgetfulness. Bittersweet jazz lulls them to sleep, and hands
do lazy shorthand in the air. Back at home again
the man with our mother fumbles the key into the lock
and winces when we call him Dad.