Good

I told him the news—the small kind,

the kind that barely earns a call.

A pause. And then the word: good.

Another pause. That's all.

The television going in his house,

some channel he keeps on all day.

He said he had somewhere to be.

I said okay.

I stood in the hallway after,

phone still against my ear,

trying to read three seconds of silence

like a letter that wasn't quite clear—

was it proud? Was it tired?

Was it the door left slightly cracked?

I've been translating his pauses my whole life

and I still don't have the hang of that.

Good. One syllable. The whole

of what he had for my good news.

I'm not saying it wasn't enough.

I'm saying I don't know how to choose

between: that's all he has left,

and: that's all he's ever known,

and: for some men, good is a kind of love—

quiet, one word, and then alone.