Presumption

There is nothing like presumption late at night.
 

As the dark settles in there's an odd sort of haze.
Bare feet on the porch feel the fresh chill of Autumn tip-toeing in.
The distance seems dense and unknown --
I can't see beyond the edge of the yard.
 

Late night moths flutter around the soft window light,
Scared of the dark and the cold.
Life as it is will go on forever,
I presume.
 

The screen door flaps open and shut.
I make out the steam from the mug before I see his face.
Comfortable and familiar as always,
I presume.
 

Before long we've claimed the porch swing.
One leg hangs over his, one doesn't reach the floor.
Life as it is will endure forever,
I presume.
 

There's nothing like presumption late at night.
 

Claire M. Shotick
Community