Near Nightfall
September 2, 2010 |12:14 | Poem of the Day By : Team X
The phone ringing stops everything and the cold voice
draws a body in white chalk—
says your son has been at the precinct since last night.
Before you leave the house, you've smoked four cigarettes
and as you drive, smoke
drifts into your eyes.
The house lights were already on and his bedroom door
a sliver of light that crossed you
when
your foot pushed it open. His absence was a question:
the Newports left unopened in your purse for years. For a moment
you almost expected to find him,
his voice barely above a whisper. The television
hummed;
it made the door an invite—but he is gone,
and you see yesterday's clothes on the floor,
books, video games and sneakers
on the bed, under the bed. He is not on the bed,
phone to his ear as usual—the door is still open.
It's Sunday and there's
no reason for his absence. Against the shadows,
hints of your laughter:
his first word was "no,"
a picture with Orioles cap on big enough
for his father,
and his face etched with red tracings of Kool-Aid.
He needs to know
you expected him home, and why smoke from a Newport
leaves the taste of metal
in your mouth.

There aren't many verse forms that are named after their originators; poetry doesn't seem to work much like biology in that respect.











