Each night I wait.
I watch out the window.
I count cars
that appear on the road.
See their headlights grow
then dwindle as they
continue past on
two lanes heading north.
“If I count ten cars, he’ll come.”
“If I count twenty…”
I hope we will drive to the light
and talk and laugh
but he may not appear.
I sit at the window until
late, the night gone.
Disappointment’s my reward.
All evening
I'm held hostage to hope.
My job – suspense, submission.
His – choice and power.
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Published by
Cynthia M. Sheward
Cynthia Sheward has written poetry since she was a child. She was born in Massachusetts but spent her young life in New Jersey. She applied her English degree from Arcadia University teaching junior-senior high school in Vermont the 70’s. In the 80s, she and her husband built their own house with their own hands in the mountains of North Carolina. In the 90s, she returned to NJ where she worked for a Fortune 500 corporation until her retirement.
Her work has been published in Friends Journal, Evening Street, the Bennington Banner, Fiber Arts Magazine, the Mountain Times and various other print media.
She currently resides in Jupiter, Florida.
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