Miscarriage

Come in, but be quiet
The rest of the house is asleep.
It just might be possible to hear
The floorboards creak.

That night I went to tell the man,
that I was in love with his daughter.
And that it was your belly after all.

In the morning he still arranges his hair,
Pulling the comb over a bald spot
He's not even sure is there.

The coffee vapours collect under
The bags of his eyes. If you see the rings
You can count his age for the cheap price
of conversation.

His brain is asleep and his fingers trace
The contours of a vinyl table cloth.
It cost five-ninety-nine and it never stains.

This was eight months ago,
Still the ninth never comes;
It dithers there on that horizon,
Where some babies are born,
And some are not.

When will your daughter be born,
And when will you introduce her.

Come in, but be quiet
The rest of the house is asleep.
It just might be possible to hear,
The floorboards creak.