Still Waiting

The creek had a name once.

People named a street after it,

a whole neighborhood,

like you do when water

is something you trust to stay.

I was stopped at the light

on a road I don't usually take,

looking down the embankment

out of nothing but habit —

and it was just rocks.

A shopping cart on its side

in the place where the current used to cut.

A pale oval of dried mud

where the water pooled last.

And on one of the larger stones,

in orange spray paint,

someone had written

STILL WAITING.

The light changed.

I didn't move for a second.

The car behind me waited too,

and then it didn't.

I drove away.

The creek had a name.

The street still has it.

The sign is green and reflective

and completely wrong,

and nobody's changed it,

and probably nobody will.