Odysseus,
his tough journey
complete, expected
Penelope to
listen—
attention undivided—
while life had
gone on, and
The table needed
clearing, and the
women’s committee met
at nine, and she
pined for the
68 diversion she’d
grown used to
(him not
around), and she
witnessed his
trials—sore ears
ringing—nodding when
appropriate,
hoping only for a
moment
to herself—once this
stranger slept—to
read a little
Gilgamesh, jot down
selfish thoughts
she could hide
before daybreak,
not to be
lost
in the ticker-tape parade that
was her husband.