Cars careen around the corner, stop
in front of their house. They empty, everyone
walking toward the door. Someone rings
the bell. She is putting the babies to sleep.
He answers, asks, Who are you? Poets,
one says. Poets? Poets. You have anything
to drink? Handling the screen door’s handle,
they mill, they prattle. It’s late. Please, leave.
We’re here to see your wife. Impossible.
They scatter, surround the house, each
window framing a face. An arm reaches
in. He says to the arm, Police are on the way,
though they aren’t. Finally he looks for her –
for his wife – but she is gone. In the end,
he could keep them out, but he couldn’t keep her in.
 
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Cati Porter is a poet, artist, and freelance writer. More of her poems be read online in the journals Poetry Southeast, Sunspinner, Banyan Review, and Poetry Midwest. She lives in Riverside, California, with her husband and two young sons.
E-mail: Cati_Porter at yahoo dot com
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