The Anchor

The rain is coming sideways now and blurring out the street.

I’ve checked the time a dozen times and paced a narrow track.

My shoes are filling up with water, heavy on my feet,

but I told you I’d be standing here until you made it back.

I’m staring at the phone screen but the glass is wet and dark.

No message in the inbox and no signal in the air.

Just the sound of distant tires and a lonely, muffled bark

from a yard behind the station while I stand and wait and stare.

It’s a special kind of hollow when the promise starts to rot,

when the waiting is a habit that you can't quite seem to break.

I’m loyal to a version of a person you are not,

standing in a downpour for a ghost’s forgotten sake.