The Wait

There is no more hot water

and the front porch step is dry

with flies. The dog died

eight months ago and sometimes

we still hear her little feet

or find her teeth in our dreams,

which are heavy with heat.

We don’t know what we’re waiting for.

Not rain. Not thunder.

Just something that shakes us

enough to wake us up.

Until then, we will stick our heads

in the fridge to feel cool.

Until then, the mailbox spiders

will hold us hostage.