Waiting by My Window

Waiting by My Window

Waiting by the window for the rain to fill the yard,
hiding in the closet where joy has been locked up tight,
formless friends never knock on the door while
a few ask about me, electrons sending their questions
with a handful of taps on their phones.

We used to run through the rain,
we used to sit on couches without having to explain,
we ate vegan spaghetti and pasta fagioli,
we traveled over the Cascades for Christmas,
and sometimes played tennis at midnight.

Waiting for the phone to ring, all I get is notifications,
someone has stolen my identity, someone compromised my passwords.
Losing my trajectory I feel my orbit failing,
near the apogee of my revolution I see home-base
rapidly fading.

I have the whole day to think, all day to question my assumptions,
but my mind aches from the outside in
and could use a break
from an old friend or two
who wouldn’t mind meeting for a beer
or a dark brew espresso.

Last night was Halloween and I sat where I could see
the children outside my window
just before they knocked on the door.
One called me by name, and I wish he had stayed.
But his bucket was not full yet. His young voice
stayed with me, a log on the hearth, a distant
ember-infused
smile.

But back to my orbit: I am sorry my tangents
have taken me away from the only solar system I have
every known.
And the distance between us is like a heart slowing down,
memories unmade, and no crew to guide my flight.

Waiting for the apology, and many are waiting for mine.
But I am dust on the shelf. The vise around my brain,
the floods and the rain,
the months and months of isolated pain

See me
waiting by my window again.