Quarter moon light stripes the landscape.
A deer leaps a stream, moving away
from city walls, an army bivouac.
Fragments of a folk song—
death, wings and fear,
shimmer and drift like
falling leaves, failing light.
I retrieve cell phone and
Shelby cigarette case from
the restaurant patio table.
Tiresome in the telling,
patience doesn’t free me.
Waking to dogs snarling,
the late chiming of a clock,
I pass a day, a life
waiting for the rain,
reading familiar titles
of wars and civil wars, suicides,
the suggestively insincere.
I memorize lies and diatribes,
stalking, greedy fables.
With a certain cunning,
a Montblanc Solitaire Blue,
I send a warning home.
I take bourbon and water in the morning,
light exercise of tai chi and free weights,
no breakfast but news on my phone.
Shaved and showered, I engage the day,
business smile assumed.
There is a report I monitor,
websites to check from a personal list.
I grew up learning when
you’re made to wait, it won’t happen.
Who I was another time means nothing.