Living Alone

The car coming down my lane

brings no one coming home

to me; there is no meaty thump of car doors,

no familial returns, no perfunctory

cheek-pecks, no screen-door slams

and shouts of  "Get down here!,"

There are no overfull grocery-bags

to collect from a rusty pickup truck.

At night the television absorbs the silence

hovering like living-room humidity

or I read a book or write a poem while

my cat stalks phantoms from room to room.

Later in bed, I remember a murky childhood:

the crunch of gravel under rubber tires

heralding the arrival of someone loved

or feared; doors creaking open and closed;

angry voices shouting in other rooms. Aside

from the muted wind, my house is silent.

I sleep—The cat will not steal my breath.

No frightened child will wake in the night.

Keith Welch lives in Bloomington, Indiana where he works at the Indiana University Herman B Wells library. He has poems published in 8 Poems, The Tipton Poetry Journal, Open: Journal of Arts & Letters, Dime Show Review, and Literary Orphans, among others. He enjoys complicated board games, baking, talking to his cat, Alice, and meeting other poets. His website is keithwelchpoetry.com. On Twitter: @TheBloomington1.