Saturday Night Live
The trash ghosts in piles at the backdoor -
the mans work around the house is stacking up -
junk litters the backyard.
I make it home at 2 am
to an invisible chastisement,
the yells echoing with me down the halls
and into my bedroom
where his left behind book sits open
and he's somewhere in Florida
watching Saturday Night Live
maybe wondering, like me, how the hell
he's supposed to fall asleep.