Waiting For The Call

Watching the wall,
waiting for the call.
Stand, and see the room.
Pace the tomb of home.
Touch the chair, browse the books
in the bookshelf there.
Leather green and gold,
the decor of an old man.
Look outside to the night,
catch sight of a face in the reflection.
See no stars.
Look to the phone,
then the wall.
Waiting for the call.

The bronze clock ticks, and sways,
counting the days.
The warmth hums,
and fills the empty house.
The hard bare stairs.
The rough sheets on the bed,
and rooms set closed for the dead.
The low ceilings, and still velvet.
The keyholes,
victorian iron,
the fragments of furs,
paintings,
and the vast and impressive turbulence on each wall,
seen, while waiting for the call.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.