Late Night Call | Always

Late Night Call

Connie Pan


Jack Starobin
The evening yellow porch light 
Falls hushed, alighting always 
On the silent concrete sliver 
Where solemn midnight inkwell, 
Voracious and unwritten, 
Meets the A-frame sheath of once young
Photos squirming out of scrapbooks
Beneath your vacant bed. 
The same suburban stoop 
That once welcomed your babbling arrival
Now marks your wordless leave 
With the sole word of its own, 
A fuzzy, weathered landing 
That bears your angry stomp 
With unspoken reply, 
The only word on which I stand 
To watch you go 
And when I leave, to which I will return
To keep my promise to you, 
My open hope above that dawnless doormat
Hinging on the humble creak 
Of your coming home.