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waiting

there were oatmeal cookies on the counter.
only three left
of the dozen she made just before the pot on the stove moaned,
weeping
that her coffee was done.

dark and bitter, sugarless
and of course no cream
to embezzle the deep black that made her coffee as mysterious
as it was steaming hot.

chatter from the tv set was more hazy
than the stale air it cut through;
crawling from the living room,
past the sleeping cat,
onto the counter
beside the once soft, now brittle cookies.

only the canned laughter from an over-played sitcom
was distinguishable
—and quite inappropriate—
for a solemn mid-week day, wednesday
in april
half-way between the start of passover
and celebration of easter.

rarely did she wear a bow in her hair—
especially her favorite, orange with yellow stripes—
her dress was soft green
a nice color for spring, she thought.
she sat properly on a dark brown metal folding chair
closer to the partially opened front door than to the aging cookies
on her kitchen counter.

she wore a metal clip
that made her feel comfortable;
assured it would not slip from her hair
even if she sneezed.

the sound of the clock on the wall
seemed to drown out the chatter of the evening news
as each passing minute brought her closer
—then took her farther away—
from the appointed time he was to arrive.

paper napkins
and half-burnt candles were in place
on top of the small round table
covered with a blue fabric that was once a sheet
but with age had become a tablecloth.
no one wondered if the stains were from the bedroom
or the kitchen.

the moon was full
as it should be
on a wednesday half-way between passover and easter;
like a shiny, polished mirror hanging on a single nail
displayed as a trophy in a case filled with gems.

‘supper at five.’
she had said and ‘supper at five’, he agreed.
that was before he changed his shirt
and couldn’t find a green one.
finally, he gave up and quit looking, thinking,
‘now i suppose she knows i’m not coming.’

there were oatmeal cookies on the counter,
only two left of the dozen she made.
the coffee was dark
and bitter,
sugarless
and of course no cream to embezzle the deep black.

she removed the bow from her hair
and sneezed
—for some reason she always sneezed
when she removed her bow—
then she looked at the stain on the sheet and remembered the night
when her smile had made her as mysterious
as the coffee.

tolbert
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