I sat there on the top step

I sat there, on the top step,

the wood warm, but splintered.

Waiting. For what, I couldn't say,

just something to be centered.

The air conditioner, a sigh

from the wall, a slow, cold drip.

And the paint, from the railing high,

curled and peeled, like a dry lip.

A cicada shell, brown,

stuck to the floorboard,

upside down. A vacant crown.

Its hollow body, ignored.

I traced its leg, translucent,

with a fingernail,

so patient.

It looked out, at nothing, pale.

Through the vacant eye,

I saw the yard.

Just more sky.

And the wait was hard.