waiting for a turn

A worker chalks a line 
across the pavement,
measuring where the new 
conduit will run.

 

He doesn’t speak of purpose;
the gesture is enough—
a quiet geometry that keeps 
the district breathing.

 

Nearby, the library’s back door 
is propped open.

 

Inside, volunteers sort 
the taped‑up boxes
of donated recordings:
voices from meetings, vigils,
street festivals that ended 
before I was born.

 

Someone has written 
dates on the lids,
not as verdicts,
but as coordinates for 
whoever comes next.

 

The room feels like a place
where the future leans in to listen,
waiting for its turn 
         to continue the work.

 

 

 

 

.