around 6,

dad comes home in powder blue scrubs that hang loose on his bones.

his keys clatter

violently on the kitchen counter.

his quieted sigh somehow

shakes the cabinets.

 

hi, he says

shortly before padding up the stairs.

i pause, waiting to hear the bathwater

spurting, and imagine that maybe

tonight, by some miracle,

the scalding water will wash his troubles

down the drain.

        

even if it will,

i know he’ll open that door again tomorrow

and bring home

that all-too-familiar dejectedness.

 

no, that’s not the right word,

but i don’t know what is.

all i know is that

those who save their worlds

never save enough for themselves.