Standard Delivery

I’m waiting for the state to tell me where to go,

or for the water company to say the bill is late.

Something to break the rhythm of the slow,

gray turning of the neighborhood’s front gate.

I pulled the handle and the metal gave a groan,

a hollow clatter echoing against the curb.

The street is quiet, sun-bleached and alone,

and not a single leaf was there to disturb.

Deep in the back, a spider’s legs are curled,

a dry and dusty knot of nothingness.

It’s a wide and empty mouth against the world,

offering a quiet kind of emptiness.