I'll Always be Waiting

I remember once, when I was seven,

I came home early from school—around eleven.

I thought my mother would be waiting:

Game time and hot cocoa—how elating.

But instead, you left me in the cold;

You couldn’t be bothered, couldn’t be told.

Your child stood there, all alone—

Not inside, but out, chilled to the bone.

No apology, no, this was on me.

How could I have known to use a spare key?

There wasn’t one. No one around.

So I sat in the snow—waiting. Not one sound.