Who am I when I’m at home alone?
Quieter, perhaps, unless I sing,

find rhythms on my drums, take a break at my piano.
I don’t talk as much. The dogs don’t respond.
I write things down instead.

I’ll read my poems and essays to you, when you’re home,
because you’re thoughtful, honest without being harsh.

You tell it like it is. Excuse the cliche,
but it works here. Describes your no nonsense way

but not why I’m someone different when you’re here.
Who am I when I’m at home with you?

I read my poems and essays to you,
the work I make when I’m alone, work
that’s born in silence. When you’re here

you fill the silent spaces where I can think things through
and I have to say the thoughts out loud to shape them.