Waiting,
in a blood red shirt
on moist earth
he sits indistinct
lulling over something.
On the brink
he thinks
he’s finding
that which he
forgot.

Arms cross
over her
white wrinkled
blouse.
Thin lines
of lovely hair
sit there
as she stares
trying to ease
the sorrow
of something
that she lost.
She waits
and faces
her own face
as a single pane
specter
who fans the flame
of a pain
that longs to be quenched.

Hand clasp
in her lap
as tired eyes
scan the skies
falling down
to the nursing home’s
parking lot,
in hopes
that the family
that has forgotten her
will finally return.
The bags under her eyes
no longer feel
the moistness
of grief
as she witnesses
all those she loved
and needed
just up and leave
like living memories
floating away
on a sweltering
summer breeze.
She knows
they are still out there
but they do not
come back here.

I watch all waiting
for the debating to cease
and the compassion to increase,
for people to hear my pleas
as I cry out for love, hope, and peace,
but I to
sit looking out
at a sad world view
as I to wait alone.