The Stairs

I stayed longer
sitting on the stairs – indecisive
of any entrance, I might
have chosen to make.

Your voice heightened, thudding
through the thin hall walls.
A mountain of verbal wrongdoings
'he said – she did – I’m leaving you’
the bones of long
screeches past, clinging to
the anxious end of day.

How does a child explain hate
plead for a silence to distract these
continual, handmade disruptive
endings.

I try to imagine you happy
but such a ridiculous image as I pull
back sharp
from a laugh, that almost
broke my silence.

Instead, I remain
waiting for the usual slamming
of the kitchen door.
Then timing
my long perfected exit
back up the stairs
once more, I  go –
before crying myself

to sleep…