I remember the summer
that my parents crumbled.
The anger
etched upon my fathers brow;
the shame
on the end of my mothers
quick clipped sentences.
It was two years
before the affair came to light,
but the August sun blazed
never the less
I haunted the halls after dark
quietly creeping along the walls
silent specter
adjusting the thermostat
as low as it could go.
I didn’t know what,
yet I knew;
it was all wrong.
Mother knew it too,
and father just waited.
Waited for it to catch up.
Waiting as the tired marsh hare waits,
knowing that the alligator is near,
yet too tired.
Too tired to fight the inexorable.
My family grew cold,
and all the while
the night sweltered
leaving the Spanish tiles sweating
as the faithful air conditioner
chugged on.