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.
Paul S. Piper was born in Chicago, lived for extensive periods in Montana and Hawaii, and is currently a librarian at Western Washington University in Bellingham where he
spends more time than he should writing. He takes his lead from Luis Borges. His work has appeared in various literary journals including The Bellingham Review, Manoa, and Sulfur. He has four published books of poetry, the most recent being Winter Apples by Bird Dog Press.