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Poem

From the parlor window,
 an old woman looks beyond the decrepit wooden rails
   of the low fence
      Five Rhode Island Reds are grazing around in tall brown grass hunting 
          grasshoppers, and she welcomes the company
               One cock sits perched on a post, in the shade of an elm
                                                          keeping watch 
Down the deserted asphalt road,
     heat waves blur the horizon
        A dusty whirlwind has picked up a tumbleweed
          And spins it against nearby barbed wire that surrounds the coop
               The sound of the windmill moans a painful whine

She looks with empty eyes, at the room around her,
  An old clock ticks away the minutes in slow motion
      The mantel displays photographs of a life she hardly recalls
              
She lays her hand on the desk, 
  picks up the phone that never rings and carefully listens to the dial tone 
     Then, she will once again turn toward the window 
           that needs a good scrubbing,
      
             where her gaze curves down the gravel driveway, 
                   toward someone not coming

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