The Wait
The coffee cup, cracked,
the newspapers, stacked,
the teaspoon, tarnished, well used.
The bills neatly piled,
the kitchen, Delft tiled,
the face, time worn and bruised.
The phone in the hall,
for no one to call,
the pendulum clock still ticking.
The photos, well thumbed,
jam stained and crumbed,
old wounds, in need of some licking.
Words said in haste,
that left a bad taste,
the slam of the door like thunder.
The pain of separation,
a cardiac laceration,
two people, two lives, torn asunder.
And now the clock scolds,
as the wrinkled hand holds
the only letter received, scrawled in haste.
Of the need to be free,
and how it must be,
when two hearts disagree, what a waste.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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