The courtyard of my old apartment
building was entirely empty of cars —
the three feet of spring floodwater
receding slowly over five days.
Few lights were on across the way
except for the kitchen window of
a woman my age who argued with
her much older husband almost daily.
My apartment was dark and I
assumed I was just a shadow at my
window. She was standing in hers
as well and before she turned
and walked back into her own darkness
I thought she spun and looked back
at me, waiting for me to acknowledge
this only moment we’d share.
Neither of us moved until her light
switched off slower than a light should,
and even after that I stood still looking
for movement that wasn’t there.
John Findura holds an MFA from The New School. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is the author of the chapbook Useful Shrapnel (Scantily Clad Press, 2009) and his poetry and criticism appear in journals such as Mid-American Review, Verse, Fugue, Fourteen Hills,CutBank, No Tell Motel, Jacket, and Rain Taxi, among others. Born in Paterson, he lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife and daughter. Visit his blog!