Just before he entered
into my house,
he talked about a killer
in the same tones
people talk about a sunny day.
In my house,
I saw the quick double take
when he saw I didn’t match
my not-all-that-new last name.
In my house,
I tried not to look at
the logo on his hat
(which my husband told me later
was the first hint).
In my house,
I made sure to craft the cadence of my voice,
not too formal, nor too casual,
because I can't really shapeshift.
In my house,
the visit was quick.
I tried to tell myself
I was imagining things.
(My husband said I wasn’t.)
In my house,
I turned away
from well-intentioned statements
I was too tired to deal with.
In my house,
I agreed with my husband,
some things could wait for another day
and said a quiet thank you
to the locks on the door.
Liner Notes for This Groove: This poem is linked to Poets and Storytellers United's Friday Writings #3 prompt,
A Different Interpretation.
