I watch light flicker under the bathroom door.
I watch the clock.
I watch one foot with a sock on jealous of the other.
I watch through the window as filth floods the street.
I watch me watching back, the future of past mistakes.
I watch the curb for signs. When a car slow-rolls over the white line and through the intersection without stopping, I watch for another.
I watch a yellow leaf zig and zag by. Trees and grass grow in this valley between mountain ranges.
They did not happen overnight.
I watch branches, their sway. My opinion does not change.
I watch the sky pick up speed, silence’s loud presentation.
I watch for words: ones to lob, ones I might throw back over my shoulder like salt and religion.
I watch without you reflected next to me: the possibility of erasing you.
Through my narrow vista, I watch how fast we hurry apart while the forecast calls for more.
I watch the door stay closed between us.
Richard Leis lives in Tucson, Arizona where he writes poetry and fiction, attends writing workshops and craft classes, and works in planetary science. His poetry has been published in Impossible Archetype, The Laurel Review, and Manzano Mountain Review and he was a finalist in the 2018 Tucson Festival of Books Literary Awards. His website is https://richardleis.com