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Waiting for Zero

Heather Sager

My friend said she’d call.
Yet the rotary phone at the house
sits solemn as a black moose’s snout
and does not ring.

I go out into the heat wave.
The redwoods waver, looking about to fall
along the entry road.
The sun angles orange bars through trees.
Also, a tall woman with a shovel
paces around the garden.
A man complains
about the death
of his strawberry patch.

I want to say words to the people,
tell them how lovely
it is here.

But the air is so thick and heavy,
the words fall from my mouth, then
splat on the ground.
The words recombine
and crawl toward the tall woman,
who moves in circles.
The tall woman thwacks the words with her shovel.
Dead, in the dust.

And later, the silent telephone.

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