"Night Shift," A Poetry Post

My husband works the night shift.

Sometimes when I come in we
pass each other and
smile.

Sometimes we don't.

Last week I
left the car running,
so
when he came bursting from the apartment
he could jump in and
pull away.

We barely said hello or
goodbye.

My husband works the night shift.
Our son is eight.

When he goes to bed his
father is gone. When he wakes up his
father has just gotten home.

He hears his daddy snore in the afternoons.

He watches me scramble to get breakfast
done
at
6:30 in the morning.

He asks me,
"Mommy? Are you done already"
because he's into cooking.

He wonders if
his father will wake up and
take him to the mall before
8.

After 8,
daddy goes nowhere,
but to work.

And me,
I'm just asleep
most of the time.

And that's what it means to be
an American.