All is quiet…finally

after the two sisters quit re-living the day

and drift into hide-a-bed snoring.

Until 4 a.m. when the brother

rattles the unfamiliar bedroom door knob

and slices light into the hall

where he bangs the bathroom light switch on

and spotlights my room like the cops

cornering an escaped convict,

and he stands there

suddenly unsure where the toilet is

or emblazoned by super nova flash

off white porcelain

like I am by his skinny ass in the doorway.

Eventually he slams the door shut

as I flip the blanket over my eyes.

He flushes that late-night roar

of water down the drain,

fumbles across the hall

before releasing his lifeline

on the bathroom light,

and I dream of watching

my morning TV show

at just the right volume.


Diane Webster


Diane Webster grew up in Eastern Oregon before she moved to Colorado. She enjoys drives in the mountains to view all the wildlife and scenery and takes amateur photographs. Writing poetry provides a creative outlet exciting in images and phrases Diane thrives in. Her work has appeared in “The Hurricane Review,” “Eunoia Review,” “Illya’s Honey,” and other literary magazines.

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