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,
grown long.
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.
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