.SPY.

The front room is dark. Mother sits and rocks
in her chair. I'm not supposed to see this, yet
I do, and sense she wrestles with nothingness.

Back and forth she prays as the world outside
our open window turns deeper into midnight,
back and forth with a rhythm and a hush.

I see this tonight in memory and recall Howie,
who tossed with me on the floor of his room,
and then afterwards we ate ceviche together

in a garden restaurant and I was with him
body and soul yet saw nothing but disdain
in the eyes of men at the opposite booth

and felt the earth advance in the hollow
of space the same way it does when I watch
from my high window planes land at Midway,

downward with their lights until obscured
by the black top of trees while the stars
flicker and the moon rides on an invisible

dial and mother sits in the dark to cope
with words and a husband who left her here
to rock all night and find out what is hope.

Bob Engler