A tired old coat
hung about him
like the mist upon
the lake. He wore
both like a single
habit, not tailored
to his oaken shoulders
as though they’d
presupposed his
breadth, but forced,
with delicate purpose,
to accommodate his
silhouette. And he
waited. He waited
by the shore, and
sometimes waded
into the lake, as
though to assure us
all that there was more
than land and fog.
Perhaps he waited
for a return, or farewell.
Perhaps he waited on
some intoxicating swell
of purpose. Perhaps he
waited for his breakfast
to grow warm over his
stove. None could so
much as pretend to know.
But still he waited. I
puzzled over his
waiting for hours upon
end, but in the great, big
end I supposed it came
down to simple logic; had
the man ceased to wait,
there’d be a hole in the mist.
This piece was originally published in Kalliope 2018.
For more information on the author, Will Carpenter, check out our feature on him here.