By the time I’d planted a flag
indicating an open house
for Sunday lookers and gone inside
 
to turn on lights, open drapes,
last-minute inspection, it was 2:00 PM,
just on time to welcome the public.
 
I looked out the kitchen window
to see a boy, maybe four, standing
in a driveway a few doors down.
 
His small face was serious,
brows knitted together as he slowly
advanced toward my flag.
 
I thought the little skunk was going
to steal it, but when he got abreast
of the thing, his right hand rose to rest
 
over his heart, and with the solemnness
of a soldier, he pledged his allegiance
to my new real estate open house flag.
                        

The Husband
 
He pounds on the front door. It’s 1:18 AM.
I cautiously pad down the long hall and peek
through the peephole and see his mane
of wild hair, the tan leather jacket I bought
him two Christmases ago. He demands
to be let in. I try to reason with him, tell him
to go back to his own apartment, remind him
the children are asleep. He says if I don’t open
the door, he will burn the house down, tonight,
now.
 
The Wife
 
I describe to the attorney how I quickly loaded
my girls in the car still in their night clothes,
how I got the cat in a carrier, and the dog
leashed. I describe locking the car doors,
starting the engine, putting the car in reverse
before pushing the garage opener. How, as I
backed out, my husband stood behind the car,
spread his arms across the trunk to keep us
from leaving.
 
The Attorney
 
Norman’s gaze is level. His expression is that of
a man who had heard it all. He listens as I describe
how the five of us slept that night in my car, the girls,
me, the cat, the dog, huddled together ready to flee.
Norman hands me a tissue. I dutifully blow my nose.
Several octaves above his norm, Norman speaks 
in a feminine voice, very similar to my own:
“Bump, bump,” bump, bump,” he says. “I must have run
over something.” His expression is quizzical as he cocks
his head to one side, listening. He continues, “I’ll just 
pull forward to see. Bump bump, bump bump.”
                        

Walk far enough down the rough path
you’ll see a tree, bent from so many years,
listing to one side in need of a crutch,
top heavy, swaying in moonlight.
 
Down low on the trunk, stars, 18 of them
create a ring with room for a few more.
They are etched into the first layer of wood
so as not to damage the bark, barely there,
 
yet each star represents a year of our love,
365 days of marriage. I dreamed of filling
the entire tree, but of course, realized too,
well into our 60’s when married, time might
 
fall through the inky dusk of nightfall. Moon
sneaks through louvers into our bedroom.
I feel the outline of trees, dream of the rough
path, while the tree adorned with stars, waits.