Waystation
Carol Pearce-Worthington
 

It is hot the first summer he is gone. I live on cucumbers. My toes ache from swelling against the ends of wherever it is I'm going. Trees fall in the park and their paths are crossed with yellow tape. I can't walk freely. I am bound tied tossed the first summer he is gone. Under the overpasses, over the crosswalks, my telephone faintly plays a tune of remembrance the first summer he is gone. The single side of the bed, the silence of the kitchen, the click of the locking door, the terminal hallway, the long stairs down down and down some more. Nothing comes. Except night and outside the window a long reach to imagine stars, except one shines when I wake to the alarm the first summer he is gone. And I shake my fist at that star, I shout at the star, I am done with pleading which has not worked. Done pleading, I cry into the rug, the star doesn't care. Nothing cares. Trees fall, heat penetrates every closet and pore and the clothes I wear, don't wear. The first summer he is gone. Gone.

long nights moon ...
in the dark
a cricket calls

Carol Pearce-Worthington's novels, children's stories, and essays accompanied by her watercolors are published at Lulu.com.

Copyright 2009: Simply Haiku