Out Late

I listen for the familiar thunk

of the front door closing.

Wait for the minor seismographic twitches

that signify the homecoming. 

I pretend I’m not waiting,

am engrossed in a fascinating book

about a lesser-known African tribe,

but have read the same sentence fifty times.

My mind is not on the intricacies of bead-work

but is full of vivid images of car-crashes,

abductions, buildings inexplicably exploding,

how I will be called to the morgue.

Just as I reach for the phone

to call the police, fire brigade, coast-guard,

the door slams. I cross myself.

‘Nice evening?’ ‘Alright’

‘Glad you’re home safely.’ ‘Whatever.’