r.kv.r.y. quarterly literary journal
                                           spring 2009 poetry
Nothing Happens
by Paul S. Piper


I wait for the faucet
to drip.  I wait by the window
for the white cat to bound
out of the bushes.  I watch
the sky for the circling gulls
or a wayward jet.  The day is
mist.  People in hats, hunched,
grimaced.  Even the bamboo
in its elegance is bowed, trailing
like a soggy tail in the mud.  I read
in the morning paper that only 23%
of the country is happy.
In the front yard, still bruised
by winter, four brilliant
red tulips, petals poised to drop.