Skip to main content

Waiting for Her

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #231. 



I’m waiting on her here, 
just leaning between shade, sun, and car door.
Gotta pickup here, back entrance. 
You’d never know that the sound
Washing against the city 
isn’t the ocean but a crowd. 
She’ll be here.
Just a few minutes more. 
We’re going to emptiness, some restaurant
Used to drive by, smell pepperoni and family, smell America.
Used to be. 
Dust and sunlight and old brick—
now serving a new album.
Do they have those anymore? 
Wax and silver? Great black speakers?
Roll over you 
like that crowd floods and puddles in the traffic noise.
She knows I’m waiting. 
Waiting for her. Waiting for yesterday.
She’s got a song about old starlight and I can feel it here
Sticking to the hot asphalt, 
fused in the shadows, 
staining windowsills.
Gotta wait. 
New starlight on the back of my shoulders, drowned in sound.

Finally seeing a little bit of fall weather and I've moved out on the patio to annoy the birds and pretend I'm in summer camp. Hoping you have a bit of that tucked-away-in-the-fresh-air calmness this week!

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Waiting for whatever reasons can be most frustrating. there are so much to rekondle in memory of good times together but the person is not there!

    Hank

    ReplyDelete
  2. Here we are having day-long rains. No fun for flood areas.
    Happy Sunday Chissa. Its interedting how busy his task of waiting is. It could be tiring too.

    Much❤lovr

    ReplyDelete
  3. Waiting for yesterday. I relate. Remembering that song about old starlight. I miss the days of stereos and turntables. Music has never sounded the same since.

    ReplyDelete
  4. It is like you have captured a moment and a time both at once here Chrissa. Absolutely beautiful!

    ReplyDelete
  5. How splendid your poem ... I sense his anticipation, his depth, waiting for yesterday.

    ReplyDelete
  6. "She knows I’m waiting.
    Waiting for her. Waiting for yesterday."

    Like many others. Love this, Chrissa!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Once Upon a Future Past

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #204 . It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening ran behind me dragons, demons, and the sleeping world; afraid to turn, to wake me. Power needs its horror stories, its ghosts. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening followed close; a fantasy of goodness, where the gold is always covering bones. Power needs its fairy tales, its witches. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening treads my hem, like an army from the dragon's teeth and all the lies therein. -- Chrissa

On Bad Days

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #186 . Sorry. Probably best to skip this one. On bad days I argue with the void: it is empty; I call it full of nothing made pathological; therefore it obsesses to possess mass, to be something arguing with the universe but shouting in the mirror black as starlit backdrop, as stars that fall deeper and deeper into time until they  drag everything into the void and are empty, wrung out of needing to have an argument and then we look at each other, deep in the black fallen forever of our gaze.  I wasn't going to post this week. But that probably doesn't matter...because here is a post. This has been a weird week and, in the midst of much more important things, my NaNo project just [temporarily] self-destructed. There will be a return to that project and I'm already sharpening the knives for it. Just need to let a little off-topic anger abate so that everyone doesn't get flamethrowers and a crazy 80's soundtrack. AAAAAAAAEEEEEIIIIIIIIIII!...

Fearsome by Survival

  Sharing today with T he Sunday Muse #189 , where Shay is hosting. Come and read and share a piece! On a web-white, wool-quiet morning I found the girl our stories gave us The one who survived She wore the meadow, carded and sewn Long since burned for field Still, she knew me Her stories named me fierce, feral She might have feared  The one who devours Neither of us spoke, patient at morning Breath, warmth, silence Innocent of power We know the stories kill us both We know that we become Fearsome by survival Hello and welcome. It's 67 degrees outside this morning and a warm December weekend might seem like the kind of thing that would prevent me from following through on a plan to hibernate with a good book for the rest of the weekend...but it's the doomscrolling that's run down the charge on my phone that's preventing me from doing that. Also, I may have developed an intolerance to long stretches of quiet during the past year and a half.  Anyway. Looking forward to r...