Hush
At least it was quiet
that night, my parents’
perpetual fighting
on hold until morning,
the fan in my bedroom
barely stirring the heavy
air. Sweat pooled
on my upper lip, trickled
down my back. You came
to my window
quietly calling out
to me, hoping I would sneak
outside with you, like we had planned,
but I was afraid. I remember the long
walks we took almost every
day that summer,
past the row houses,
up and down the steep hills,
and through the housing project.
We meshed because I was a quiet
weakling and you were a loudmouthed
fighter. Your mother always sat
at the kitchen window with a coffee cup
full of beer. She fooled most people,
but you to me
the truth. Walking was
our purification. Our way
to numb ourselves,
our second chance.