Nat scoots across the scarred bench of a booth
in a diner that opens before dawn.
Basks in the waiter's welcome as he brings,
unasked, her coffee, croissant and menu;
pretends she may order something new.
Nat's knotted muscles untie as the man
freshens her mug, serves her food, clears her plate.
When her eyes no longer hold the faces
she zipped into body bags that night,
she is ready to head home to her cat.
Nick hangs his jacket and holster, habit
putting his weapon away safe and sound.
Strides to his stereo, punches the switch,
pushes the volume up past memory,
driving out the recent and the distant.
Nick rests his forehead against his speakers,
every last sense overflowing with song.
When his nose no longer flares at the blood
he could not save from spilling that night
he is ready to taste paler proteins.
Don tests his front door's deadbolt behind him.
Drifts through his dark house, needing no lights
to dodge the creaking step and squeaking hinge.
Checks his sleeping daughter and wife and dog,
turns on (quickly mutes) Jenny's Nintendo.
Don stomps turtles until he tops her score
and dawn brings Myra, yawning, to his side.
When his fingers no longer grasp the gun
he had no choice but to pull that night
he is ready to hear about her day.
END
