Waiting

The day pulls

like a tired

horse.

Students slump

in their desks,

poised at the entrance

to the dark stable of sleep.

Class ends.

My chair tips,

and I spill toward home

where my lawn is waiting,

spread across the lap of my house

like an apron catching sunlight,

the latch on my gate waiting to be lifted,

the lock on my front door waiting for the key,

the kitchen, pregnant with fresh bread, waiting

for the soft light of the foyer to spread over it,

the light fading into a gray reminder of itself

inside my bedroom, across my pillow,

bookmark for my dreams, where I can spill toward

tomorrow, imagine it'll be a racehorse stamping at my door,

tearing from the gate.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK