It’s a waiting game, I guess.
Straining my neck,
Angling it in unnatural ways
To catch glimpse of your truck.
I hear loud but steady engines roaring,
And my eyes dart to see if it’s you.
It usually isn’t.
At one time, the sound was so distinct
That it was reassurance of your coming,
But it blends into the haul
Of all other gas guzzlers, anymore.
I won’t know it’s you
Until my phone rings
Like the three hundred others around me.
I guess, I’m not alone in this.
Cat Circa 1920 