Sated

I stretch a leg

Footprint

On the inside

Of the front window

Chevy Silverado

 

Timber’s tavern

Sparse parking lot

Sober going in

Drunk coming out

 

Air turns icy

But we wait

Glad he’s there

Not with us

 

Little brother and I

Not yet puberty

Fog on the windows

From voices unheard

 

Entrance opens

Stare at the door

Wide eyes

Quick pulse

 

Finally he emerges

Clock says one

Pulse quickens

Unlocks driver’s door

 

Face red yet relaxed

Waft of spirits

Hum of the engine

Seatbelt clicks

 

Driving is different

Peaceful in his weaving

A silver snake

Heading home

 

We go to sleep

Safe in our rooms

Tonight he wasn’t angry

Tonight he is sated