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
half-read

and he's somewhere in Florida
watching Saturday Night Live
laughing maybe
maybe wondering, like me, how the hell
he's supposed to fall asleep.