waiting for a turn

A worker chalks a line
across the pavement,
measuring where the new
conduit will run.

He doesn’t speak of purpose;
the gesture is enough—
a quiet geometry that keeps
the district breathing.

Nearby, the library’s back door
is propped open.

Inside, volunteers sort
the taped‑up boxes
of donated recordings:
voices from meetings, vigils,
street festivals that ended
before I was born.

Someone has written
dates on the lids,
not as verdicts,
but as coordinates for
whoever comes next.

The room feels like a place
where the future leans in to listen,
waiting for its turn
to continue the work.

.