Nine-Thirty

For March, it’s warm

and still as concrete. I didn’t know

the noise cut in through Dad’s

open window. I won’t

sleep tonight. The Gardens

are near the freeway,

where relatives like me

have easy on,

easy off.

Everything’s built

to suit us: chandeliers

and cavernous chairs,

as if our parents were off

on an endless cruise.

They even have people

to do this: help him

unbutton his shirt.

But I’m here

to do it tonight, the fabric

tame under my fingers,

the small buttons

giving up

one

after

another.

Amy Miller