waiting on the past

the night
is longer than expected.
no stars.
no moon.
the streetlights are pink
to deter crime.
I get up
to look out into the woods
and hear
the fox cry.
whether pain
or in pleasure, who's
to know.
there are things to do.
so much
is left undone.
and that keeps me awake,
waiting on
dawn.
waiting on the paper
to slap
against the porch.
for the milk to arrive
in glass bottles,
for someone to holler
down,
come back to bed.