Time In Slow Motion
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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