we always watched them
after the sun had drifted
and the sodium lights
buzzed on through
the town already closed

she’d take her seat
at the edge of the couch
while I sat on the floor
legs crossed
freshly bathed
yellow legal pad at hand
turning a Number 2
between my pruned fingers

her husband was a writer
worked in a green wallpapered
room with small mallards 
in the pattern

she wasn’t my mother
not my grandmother
she didn’t have to be anyone
to a boy like me
didn’t have to let me come over
but she chose to be something
between those two things
to keep me alive

all these years later
my wife and I
can’t sleep without
them playing
the piano intro
swelling strings
between scenes

the comfort I find
in that wide shot
of that house 
with the half moon
above

laying in bed
I feel home
and safe
and perfect