The wife sleeps. She gets up at 4 AM.
It’s 9 PM and I feel guilty for being up.
I try not to make noise, just scratches on paper.
All these words are toned down
so as not to wake an early riser.
Any excitement in them
is of the quiet kind,
what you find when fishing,
or driving a country road
just to see where it goes,
or turning a page in a book
with all that thunder and gunfire
locked down into sentences,
so only you can hear it.