one of them always lingers.
a pair of dark brown eyes
my eyes
gazes intently
motionless
while I smile
and wave
and slowly drive away.
the three hours home
are always dark.
music blaring
I can still hear
the echoed laughter
the contented sigh
the question never asked.
I am fighting sleep.
my back is aching.
I have been torn to shreds
in some nightmare
in which my children
are bored and tired
of the long drive
back and forth
and have better things to do
on a saturday night.
parallel parking
I am careful
of the car behind me.
I climb the steps
to my apartment
without turning on the lights.
and in my restless dreams
I somehow know
that I will never stop bleeding.
Paul David Mena
28 February, 1997
Cambridge, MA
