Next By Jessica D’Ambrosio
What are you watching way up there,
on the roof?
Are you waiting for someone to pass by below you?
How will that someone appear to your stone stare?
I imagine him as being tall. With a dragging coat.
His feet appear never to touch the pavement.
His head perpetually bent as if the ground was important.
He is a tragic, old man. He has already died; he just doesn’t know it yet.
Why are you weeping?
Does his sadness touch you?
Do you mourn for your old man?
Or do you shed tears for yourself because you are alone?
What are you waiting for way up there,
on your peak?
Are you waiting for something significant to transpire?
Will the sky open up and implore you to fulfill your purpose?
Can nothing disrupt your stare?
Are you caught in a spell; destined to forever watch over the people
below?
The church bell rings. Does it mean nothing to you?
Your people scurry about. Late for something, just on time.
Looking for a friend, avoiding an acquaintance.
And still you sit, waiting for something.
As the rain screams past you to be united with the ground,
still you sit.
Way up there, with your granite mouth agape; your stone stare
watching over infinity.
Your petrified wings, folded back, ready to never strike down.
There you are, perched way up there, on the roof.
Waiting for nothing.
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