Why doesn’t he come home? I’ve cooked him dinner, rack of lamb, buttered almonds with wilted spinach and thinly sliced sweet potato baked with butter, cream and gruyere, arranged artfully on the plate. His strained mind wrestles onward somewhere between beer and shots while I tuck the children in bed, tell a story of a golden stair ascent to billowing clouds, in which Moscavite castles nestle within rainbow domes. And within that foothold of the imagination each room entered promises a new adventure. The children are satisfied and go to sleep. These two calm witnesses have combed the law of me. My silent home. The dog itches. The heater shuts down. Outside a frog aria. Still he doesn’t come. And the children didn’t even ask why he didn’t come home.