In the evening it’s quiet

and all so overwhelming,

how the floorboards creak—

listening to music,

the refrigerator hums.

It feels like Winter in West Haven.

Summer in Black Point.

It feels like sleepovers on Hill Street.

Has the world forgotten us?

Or have we just found relief?

A little sort of hideaway

that no one else can see.

So I pour a cup of coffee—

do all I can to stay awake.

For now the storm has passed.

And all that trickles in

from the window that’s been open,

are the cooing sounds of morning

that no more than a sneeze could break.