Black crosses cross’d the white linens of the unlit master
In a pastel four bedroom house on a picket fence-lined street.
Sundays shrink to Mondays and the black turns to grey and then
Grey to white and then nightfall and indistinction. And then
A boy and girl approach and a hand at the doorknob is drawn sharply back
As a glass of white zinfandel tumbles
End over end.
The dog has no conception but he scratches at the door,
Sniffing at his intuition.
Tastier than the used feminine pads in the beach themed shared bathroom across the
More savory than the stained boxers in the boy’s dirty clothes hamper.
When they come home early they find Daddy in front of the computer,
And when they come home late they find an elephant cooking dinner,
But hands away.