Where I Wait! Poem by Eric Cockrell

bandaging the wound
with hands that dont connect
to your heart,
am i real? just a ghost?
a wisp of smoke,
the faint taste of rain?

stop running!
the riverbed is dry.
and the sound of the crows,
all that can be heard.
the cup on the windowsill,
empty and untouched!

the small child races
barefoot through the garden,
the paper turned yellow,
the inkwell is dry...
cobwebs in the corner

where i wait!