She Sits Inside the Auto Repair Shop Waiting Room
eating a bag of pork rinds, drinking bottled water, by the soda machine in the corner that coughs, sending ripples across a brown-stained puddle, white steel-framed plastic chair against the grey wall in a yellow dress— mini blue bows spray hair like water from a fountain. TV tucked high, tuned to a fishing event. She can change the channel but explains her joy of all animals, with feet crossed, toes pointing like a ballerina set to twirl above a cedar-paneled stage. She giggles when anglers catch bass, pull jig from cheek, weigh them as skeletal fins wave for water. Her mouth forms a cone, shoulders hunch and sway as she waves, makes faces at a child, who screeches from outside the room. Her first two grandchildren, fiancé and son, stay with her, and two others she babysits often, three more live with a son up the north-east coast; she has yet to hold the latest grandchild. Even so, she waits —like the daisy in cracked ground knows cold wind brings rain—to be embraced.
Billy Thrasher is a poet and graduate of the MFA program at Lindenwood University. He writes at home in his office, at the coffee shop, at the park, and in his car during lunch breaks. The simple, brief moments in life catch his attention and spark his creativity. He has poems published in Moon Magazine and Lagom A Journal.