Cul-de-sac

I would let agony

              have its privacy

why tell you—every night

              all night, the quiet man

of the cul-de-sac

              who walks to town

with a backpack

              to buy his milk

eggs or liquor

              cries out sharply

in wordless baritone grit

               often staccato—a war

it changes the stars

              flavors the giant

insomniac silence

              gets into my husband’s

cracks, plants dark seeds

              in words, tone

in the belly of the next day

              tonight I close

the window

              trap stale air

small silence, sleepless

              the cries carry on

inside me, I strain

              to hear him, companion

beyond the glass

              slide the door

to the porch

              take a blanket

to the metal love seat

              antique rocker

strange comfort, his groans

              all of us involuntary

voyeurs of pain

              on a 45 degree night

in the window of the neighbor

              between us and him

an air conditioner

              begins to whir

out of nowhere

              white noise