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