The Counting Game

The car is warm. The street is black.

I tell myself I won't go back.

But three miles out, the ghost-bolt slides,

and every doubt the darkness hides

begins to itch beneath my skin.

I have to check where I have been.

I park the car. I walk the side.

The iron gate is shut and tied.

I click the latch. I pull it twice.

The metal feels like jagged ice.

In the kitchen window’s low-lit square,

the pilot light is always there.

A steady, blue, and silent spark

to keep the house from drowning in the dark.