I, Too, Waited for the World to End

He never looked at me

as he walked through

the arched doorway that evening

in the rain

nearly four and a half years ago.

He never looked at me

as he entered

our home all those years

through the drought

nearly four and a half years.

He never looked, but he came.

He came, not like the visitor

that he was. He didn't clean his

shoes on the mat outside the front

door. He came

as though he lived there,

and he never looked. Not at me.

Without looking at me he

climbed the stairs one at a time,

not hurrying. He walked

one step and another to the top, where

he would find her room and her,

waiting for the world to end.

The handle turned with a click

and the door screamed gently open

to her and her waiting. He closed

the door sighing softly. He always

closed the door to her room

when he came.

He came without looking at me,

never looking at me, as he

tracked mud up the stairs to her room

those nights in the rain. She waited

for the world to end. He came.