waiting, waiting

the sun

is a cold globe
of despair.

it shines a yellow dress
of light

upon
the wet grass, the low
lying
homes

with latched doors
and windows.

not a soul
trespasses the yard.

all stores are closed.
no church

bells are ringing.
shadows

are in the windows
peering out.

no one is looking in.
everyone waiting.

waiting.

for Godot to end things,
to figure it
all out.