Waiting
Waiting
Some nights
the only sound
high-pitched, insistent
tinnitus wire singing
unchanging
these fourteen years
And still I wait
An image brushes—
oak leaves scraping
the glass pane as wind
rises
Roll to sitting
two paths—fingers
fumbling in the dark
three clicks
of my lighted pen, jot
words that might
call back
how this feels
or rise, turn on
low light toddle
down the hallway
fingers find
the keyboard
eyes adjust
to brighter light
the high drone tone
the wait for words




Wow! You have a lighted pen?