I wait for the faucet
to drip. I wait by the window
for the white cat to bound
out of the bushes. I watch
the sky for the circling gulls
or a wayward jet. The day is
mist. People in hats, hunched,
grimaced. Even the bamboo
in its elegance is bowed, trailing
like a soggy tail in the mud. I read
in the morning paper that only 23%
of the country is happy.
In the front yard, still bruised
by winter, four brilliant
red tulips, petals poised to drop.
