Waiting and half asleep by Doug Bond

It is late, again. And I hear
the restless, clopping
footsteps in the apartment
upstairs. Bathroom water
rushing through our
shared walls.
Their life marching
past me in the hall
twelve feet above.

Expecting soon, clearly,
any day now. And they are
older, even than us,
bringing a new life
to light in the narrow
passageways of these
identical, stacked
railroad flats.

A chair leg skitters.
Or is it a night stand,
perhaps a clock hitting
the floor? Furnishings,
I can only imagine,
I really don’t know them.

Or maybe
she’s forgotten
the layout of the
things on their floor
with her belly grown
so big.

My wife lies
flannel wrapped
and lightly snoring,
a pillow rolled
between us
for her back.

Outside
I hear the shudder
of an idled bus,
the sound of car doors
being opened.

Waiting and half asleep.

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