Charlie’s on the couch,
ears half-up like he’s mid-thought.
Jadie’s at the door,
guarding the house from falling leaves.
They know I’m not writing for the money.
They know I’m not writing for peace.
They know I’m not even sure why I’m writing—
but we don’t care.
They watch me the way priests watch sinners:
with disappointment,
but also a little hope.
I think they expect something good to come from it.
Maybe a walk.
Maybe a poem that doesn’t end
with someone dying,
or a man talking to his ghosts.
But I can only give them
the sound of fingers
trying to find
whatever’s left
worth saying.
