A Poem

This one is my own.

Night Out

He's waiting at home this evening with an argument
on the table between his forearms like a plate
between a knife and a fork. She thinks of not going back,
of driving to the nearest Best Western, checking in and
ordering room service, staring out the window as she eats
at the orange sky with obliterated constellations, relieved
that she won't have to wash the dishes, read bedtime stories,
not wrestle over the meaning of picturing herself making love
to another man -- while he rattles on about mortgage payments,
the broken garbage disposal and the cell phone bill.
Just a good night's sleep, someone else for a change to clean
the bathroom, empty the trash, someone else's voice to wake her up
in the morning. Cut off for one night from the life she's built for herself,
brick upon Victorian brick, massive, sturdy, beautiful, but without windows.