The Night Light

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night

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It was after midnight,
when he slipped out of bed,
careful not to disturb,
the trailing streamers 
of dreamers in la la land.

The house held its breath warm—
willing all within its walls
to stay asleep; not be stirred.
The creaks of timber stairs
were never heard, never slurred,
to blurt out their secrets and 
break the stark, thin, brittle hush of night.

As he snuck into the kitchen,
the night light came on,
saving a bare-foot snub. 
As he stooped to open the fridge,
he saw the note she left on the door,
from the day before, saying:
“I forgot to tell you the milk's a little off.”

He smiled at the crooked charm of the message,
feeling a ghost in the whispered warning.
Fed the milk to the cat. 
It purred with delight.
Sometimes he thought, such tiny phrases, 
slip in before they're noticed,
curdle before you taste them.
Only to slink away with a sting in their tale.

With that, he nodded and returned. 
The fridge door slammed itself shut.
He wandered back to bed, on tiptoe, making no sound.
He left the light night burning,
for the shadows that rose on the landing, 
and for the cat. 
Both slunk away, back to bed.

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