Nicholas Froumis

She takes a seat on the dry, cracked wooden
bench. The cars approach without the slightest
sign of slowing down. (Here again, couldn’t
he just come by the house on the brightest
summer day?) Deep blue eyes and curly hair
were not the only traits mother passed down.
When forced to wait, a harsh and squinted stare
sends disapproving looks to all the town’s
travelers. Back at the house her mother
sits in her own lonely world of waiting.
(Why would he ever leave for another?
Does that fool think he can pull off dating?)
Now each are left to long for the same man,
an absentee to loyalty’s demands.