This is a walk home in

early morning fog after rainfall.

Step by step, the cobblestones

remind me to stay sober.

Excuse me—pardon—

watch it—watch out—

keep walking—I said

move along—

She’ll be mad at me

for being out all night,

I know it.

She’s waiting for me

beneath our

white-hot kitchen lamp,

I know it.

I feel a hunched dread

for what will come:

twisting the knob,

setting foot in the foyer,

sliding off my boots,

and a severed voice

asking where have you been?

I want to lather propane,

singe these fears,

the mist of her voice,

from my matted skin,

let them burn out

on the mossy Grafton stone.

There I am, in still puddles,

each passing step

breaks me in dirty water.

My jeans, soaked through,

the threading’s undone.

She’ll be mad about that too,

I know it.

I need to sober up,

find our red Georgian

door, but on Anne St.

they’re all painted black.

Did Prince Albert die again?

If I go through

the wrong door,

I may find a new wife,

a new stranger.

Matt Gillick is from Northern Virginia. Most of his published work is available on mattgillick.com.