No one plays the piano, no one
disturbs the silence
building like dust, another day of it.
We are waiting, each of us:
the rocking chair waits
to be authentic antique,
the window waits for the lamp
to click on
in the house across the street
where the grass waits to be cut
and the birdbath
waits to be filled.
Sky waits for night to be painted in
behind the great clock
that waits to be correct.
And the blind phone
sits on its cradle
and smiles in its sleep.
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