Stay

for DB

Dad was up when I got home.
He knew where I’d snuck off to
but asked me anyhow. “What is that:
makeup? Glitter? Lipstick? This
is really you? My boy? You smell.” He leaned
in close and sniffed. “You smell like gardenias.”

I didn’t say a word, and when at last
he really heard my silence, yawned,
and let me, I climbed his creaky stairs,
lay down, and watched the next-door
beer-sign blink, its green and yellow
bouncing off my bedroom ceiling.