SHE WAITS

In her favorite wingback chair
Her beloved dog curled in her lap
For the cavalry to come
And rescue her.

The bitter cold wind of yet another winter passing
Brushes her hair

A man stands behind her
His hand on her shoulder
A gesture of fondness
Were it not for the vise-grip

The bitter cold wind of yet another winter passing
Brushes her hair

And the dog is puzzled
Because the cavalry already came and went
Trumpets blowing
Banners flowing

Yet still she waits
For their arrival

And for each year past,
He takes ten
And for each of his dreams realized
A thousand of hers are
Stillborn.