Until the Sun Goes Down
by Lamisha Watson

Mr. Stan always washes his car.
All summer
he’ll wash the car
cut the grass
sit on his porch
sip his sweet tea.

“Hi, young lady, how was your day?”
He’ll sit and sit on the dusty porch
until the sun goes down.

One winter,
when he was sick,
my dad shoveled his walk; no charge.
His wife gave us gifts
coats
and warm bread.
We sat, waiting for his car,
until the sun went down.

Ms. Vera always gardens.
Old hands
always digging in dirt or
straining to pull up weeds.
She likes it clean.
Going up and down the block,
scarf tied around her head with pride,
picking up after the kids; no help
She’ll sit and sit
in the grass
until the sun goes down.

There’s a house down from me.

Cold

Empty

Going and coming s’what the the residents do.

No one stays for long
in the sad house.
Inside,
walls worn down by the staircase
from hands sliding down them,
creaky floors
from the endless pit-a-pat of tiny feet running to and ‘fro,
longing
for the woman who was once there.
The house sits at the end of the block,
waiting for someone to call it home
until the sun goes down.