Late at night, he sneak out.
When he thinks I's sleepin'.
When he thinks
I don't hear him for being so exhausted from tendin' to the baby, who
got a bad case of the colic.
But I hear him, his big bare feet
slidin’ over the floor boards in the hall and the click a’his nails,
When he come back to bed in the mornin’, his hair a right
mess with brambles, there’s somethin’ sticky, dark, an' thick in his
beard, an' his breath smell like old meat.
I try not to wonder who made him a meal this time.