By The Hour

You've worn a hundred faces

and I loved every one:

a glass, a glow, a little pill,

a hand of cards at dawn.

You always dress as medicine.

You always knock as rest.

Some nights you're courage. Some nights sleep.

Some nights you're everyone who left.

And every dawn the ledger's out,

same arithmetic in red —

You charge by the hour,

and I've paid you in years.

Every hurt I ever brought you

is still sitting right here —

just quieter. Just patient.

You don't drown a thing. You rent it silence.

You charge by the hour,

and I've paid you in years.

My little girl learned early

not to need me after dark.

My mother prays with the door cracked open

like she's done since I was small.

And I carried Danny's casket

with these same two shaking hands

you always swore you'd steady.

You cost me every ordinary evening —

nobody tells you it's the ordinary

you end up begging back.

And every dawn the ledger's out,

same arithmetic in red —

You charge by the hour,

and I've paid you in years —

paid in birthdays, paid in mornings,

paid in my girl's closed door.

And the hurt I first brought to you

has had children while it waited.

You charge by the hour.

I've been paying you in years.

So here it is — whatever face

you're wearing on the table tonight,

I'm leaving it there.

I'm not brave. I'm just tired.

That'll have to do.

I called my girl this evening.

She let it ring twice — then she answered.

That's a door.

I'm going home to feel it all,

and I'll count the days in mornings.

It was always going to hurt.

You just sold me the layaway.

You charged by the hour,

and I paid you in years.

Tonight I settle up in full —

the hurt, the whole bill, down.

It'll take me under for a season.

Then it's mine. Then we begin.

You charge by the hour —

and I'm buying back my years.