late for dinner

i lean

on the kitchen and sink

and stare

out the window, not unlike

how my

mother used to do

when waiting for my father

to arrive home

after

canoodling at some

bar

with a floozy.

arriving late

with 

lipstick and scratches

on his face.

dinner cold on the table.

when i look out

i can almost

see his turquoise Impala

pulling up,

and then him,

staggering up the sidewalk,

zipping up his fly,

while whistling out loud.