WAITING 1963

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.


GRANDDAUGHTER

She touches me
as if I'm rock or tree
immune to time
and gravity, 
impervious to woe.
The twenty years
we’ve left
(with luck and grace)
invisible to her.
 
In her constant now
our cardinal sings
the mac ‘n cheese is hot.
We walk the stones in her backyard
our sacred spot.
She will have time enough
to seek me
in rocks and trees
when I’m gone.

Today she leans
against my jeans 
and turns me
briefly immortal.