The Final Wait

As ISIS continues to foment war’s violence and barbarous intimidation, one can only wonder what it must be like.

The Final Wait
                   by Odin Roark

The village air is filled with bistro’s aroma,
The morning’s first brew.
The old man’s first cup.

Sitting at his sidewalk table,
He breathes deeply
The dawn’s fresh air.
He sips.
He knows it’s coming.

His eyes turn south.
From the hills,
It will appear, and…

Still the sun continues to rise.
Sparrows wait at the bakery door.
Crumbs are good.
Always good.

He waits.

Next door,
A father and uncle
Deliver the newlyweds’ finished chair,
A craft of love,
Its coating of shellac,
Sparkles in the sun’s reflection.

Across the street,
An old battle scared bicycle
Rests chained to the light pole,
Rusty links still loyal.

Its young owner works atop the building
Repairing his grandmother’s sagging clothesline posts,
Eyes darting from hammer and nail to the south.

With windows closed everywhere,
Sealing in what air remains fit to breathe.
The bakery’s gaily painted door bursts open.
A white aproned girl dashes out,
Her panicked eyes to the south,
She leans down, placing her hand on the cobblestones.

The boy on the roof
Careens down the stairs,
Jumps on his bike,
And like the girl,
Peers to the south.

On his second cup now,
The old man stares at the stone street
Vestige passage his grandfather helped build.
Soon, he knows,
The street will be rubble,
The air will be filled with acrid smoke,
Cries will be heard,
Executions will be piled,
Sorrow will be everywhere,
But for now…

The girl runs up to her mother’s embrace.
The boy bikes for home.
The sparrows fly to their nests.
The fluttering leaves hold their breath.
The street suddenly becomes quiet,
Save the clanging of church bell warnings.

As tank treads invade the cobblestone.
He places his revolver on the table.

The black flags darken the sunrise.

The wait is over.