The Slack-Jawed Night

A poem by Daniel A. Olivas

The slack-jawed night

sits motionless in

my sorrel leather

chair, not knowing

where he is.

He looks up,

with a jerk of

his head, just

as I move

towards him.

Eyes narrow,

the light bulb

flicks on.

“Ah!” he says.

“Ah, yes!”

I stop short, and

slowly (ever so slowly)

I move back (with a

slight twinge in my

lumbar) and return

to the long, green

couch.

“Ah!” night repeats.

“I am here again!”

“Yes,” I answer,

settling into place

and yawning just

a bit.  “You are here,

again,” I reassure.

Night rubs his rough

chin (he needs a shave,

I believe), and smiles.

“I am better than

nothing,” he murmurs,

locking his black,

gleaming eyes on mine.

I force my face

away, to the dusty

crystal sitting unused,

sealed in the mahogany

cabinet that was a wedding

gift almost fifty years ago.

From whom?  I don’t

remember.  But if Lois

were still here,

keeping track of our

lives, she’d know.

She’d know.

“Better than nothing,

eh?” repeats night.

I do not answer.

Night leans forward

(jaw slack no longer, but

now jutting out at me),

fingers intertwined,

brow knitted with

thought.  “I am here

for you, now,” night

finally says.

I turn and meet his

gaze and nod.

“Yes,” I answer

as I rub my eyes.

“You are here,

for me.” 

("The Slack-Jawed Night" first appeared in TMP Irregular.)