picking her up from work

here I sit
as I often do,
in my decade-old car
outside the childcare center
shaded by maple trees

two round faces,
noses on window,
look out - not at me -
at light’s latest study
in the swaying leaves

the canvas,
if it can be called one,
is moving, decaying,
static, and growing
even when night sets in

by then, I’m sure,
I’m gone, they’re gone
the street is empty
my wife, the teacher,
is home safe with me

the little ones
are long asleep
unless it’s one of those nights
we all have those nights
when we rest uneasily

those nights,
without sleep,
and too much to lie awake for

D.C. Klein is a poet originally from San Diego, California now living near Portland, Oregon with his wife and their cat. His debut collection, Half a Martyr, is available to order here. In his work he investigates what can and cannot be saved from a burning house.