Quiet

The kids woke me in their usual way
on this first weekend,

little hands reaching through the dark.
Brushing was never a problem

in the bathroom on their side of the house,
but then comes breakfast,

the clear bell of spoonsong on bowl,
followed by the thunder of heels on hardwood,

scattershot icemaker filling glasses,
the groan and slam of the backdoor,

screams of sibling fights.
Every weekend the same grit-teeth reminder:

be quiet, someone is sleeping.
Sometimes habits are like ghosts,

like when I try to keep them quiet
and they ask me why, now that it’s just us.