You can wait

 

You can wait all morning

for someone to come.

They never promised,

only hinted,

but you frittered away

a hour or two.

Then you put a note

on the front door

that said, ‘in back.’

The paint can came out

and was opened,

brush dipped and spreading

white on white.

Nearing noon

and you’re pounding

the lid tight,

but too soon yet for lunch.

Nothing better to do.

You look with a careful eye

at the peeling front railing.

Or at the zinnias over the side,

splattered so much red, orange, and pink.

Soon will come the end of the summer,

and maybe they will come by for some cut flowers.

And so maybe tomorrow you will

tackle the dusty edges of the floors,

a corner or two.