Children by Matthew Wallenstein

There is the sun and the dust in it,
the open photo albums, the old
house sounds.
Outside his window a car drives by kicking
up rocks and dirt.

The table is clean
and dressed for three,
he is as well.

The spoon in his hands
cradles the silver sun,
its curved edge
shining like a slice of moon
or a scythe. He knows
they aren’t coming, though

he waits
with folded hands,
and his stomach waits.

This Sunday sun
moving the shadows
of cups and spoons and his own
hands across the table,
they spread like thin ink
in water.

There is the sun and the dust
in it, there is his dry mouth,
and waiting.

The old
house sounds

bump off the walls
and into
each other.

The chairs—vacant
as the collapse of something—
bilking sound.

Matthew Wallenstein is the author of a weekly non fiction column in the Pittsburgh Current. His short story collection Buckteeth was published in March of 2020. Matthew is the author of the poetry collection Tiny Alms (Permanent Sleep Press, 2017). His work has previously been published by the University of Chicago,  Albany Poets Society, the University of Maine Farmington, among others.