Afternoons, waiting

Snatching green leaves off
a little bush,
I'm angry.
Angry in an empty parking lot,
empty except for me and
a quiet Indian boy.
He never talks-
to me-
but this routine is daily.
A car passes by.
I look up-
but it's not my ride.

After I rip the leaf from the bush,
I flick it away,
not bothering to watch
it's downward spiral.
We are silent,
but we are not uncomfortable.
We are just there.
A car passes by.
I look up-
but it's not my ride.

I move onto the next bush,
unsuspecting and
alive.
I tear these leaves to shreds
as I remember the words of my mother.
She told me that
taking leaves from a bush
is like
a giant taking arms
from me.
I'm sorry to hurt this bush.
But there's nothing for me to do but
rip these leaves and
not talk to
the quiet Indian boy.
A car passes by.
I look up-
but it's not my ride.

I turn, but
the quiet Indian boy
is gone.