Late

“What time will you be home?”

I asked, my hand

lingered on his cheek

feeling the early stubble

of brown and blond and grey, 

breathing in the morning smells

coffee and toast, sweat and semen.

“Not late.” I hoped he meant early.

 “What time will you be home?”

I asked, my back turned,

cleaning the encrustations 

from the high chair.

My shirt is stained with milk and sick,

I slept with my breast in her mouth.

He slept elsewhere.

“Late.” Of course late.

“What time will you be home?”  

I put on my tights and skirt,

blouse and jacket, paint my face.

He pats the bed beside him.

I slip on my shoes.

He reaches out his hand.

I brush my hair.

“Late, very late. Never.”