Photo by Michael A. Jones

She waits,
it’s what she does,
for the chairs to fill, and empty,
for the baby in the room across the hall to sleep,
for the posters to peel back from the walls,
an extra roll of tape in the top drawer of her desk
in case.

She waits for the light bulb she cannot remember replacing
to sputter, gone,
and hopes it will keep on
until at least next month
when the day stretches into evening
and she waits for the chairs to fill
and for the forsythia under the window
to give up or burst into the yellow
that can only mean April.

~

A five-part photo-poetry collaboration:
Photos by Michael A. Jones
Poems by Lindsay Zier-Vogel