Sean Lause

The waiting

I never minded Mrs. Straussen,
who limped across the trailer lot
each day at 1:26,
her crutch creaking like an old tree limb,
her left leg swinging, rhythmic as a noose.

She knew her mailbox would be empty.
She had lost both her sons
and she made this daily ritual
a protest against silence.

But the others...
Their lives were like the silence
between drops of rain.
The tired men and worn-out women,
hands pocketed or touching stray hairs into place,
gazing past each other or down at the gravel,
each day more patiently,
a faith I could never touch
cupped in their palms
as they watched the mailman's hand
drop it all in the wrong slots,
a quick, fleeting purity
denied them.

They spoke of weather,
searched the sky for portents,
then turned back to their separate paths,
speaking gently to themselves,
looking forward to haircuts, hairstylings,
though they must have known that what is cut
cannot suffice,
and that the mailman is sure,
and forgiving,
but never kind or merciful.