What Are You Waiting For?

 

A shadow leaks from the cracked teapot,

Spider-webbed porcelain holding mysteries.

The clock wheezes in the quiet,

Its hands brittle like old bones.

 

The floorboards whisper secrets,

Under the weight of barefoot steps.

Dust motes dance in a single beam—

Our thoughts collecting in the silence.

 

Outside, the old cat limps through the garden,

Each pawfall a soldier’s march through weeds.

The telephone cannot remember voices,

Only the echo of unanswered calls.

 

We sit, heartbeats slow and measured,

Waiting for the sound of a key in the lock,

For the world to recognize our smallness,

To pause and nod before passing by.