She spoke, in fine articulacy as did the sinograph on the side of her neck
That said, “see the cloud’s expectant rain,” along with the gray in her name,
Did not do justice to the optimism she spoke.
Her story walked along a straight wooded road, of no intersection, of no interaction,
The folk seemingly frozen in time, the further one walked alone or together, the further the travel
Found more and more expectant people who increasingly greeted with suspicious warmth,
It unexpectedly revealed the sameness and repeated patterns of her own stuck world,
Showing the perpetuity of lessons said and not mingled with,
Though such thought was betrayed by her articulate story.
She conveyed hope, a longing for the protections of her own home, a little insurance, perhaps her own phone....
...Her mother did not understand the rules of working, under the table, she was as expectant in her flatness
As her father, who could only drive bicycle, hoped for the flat road ahead, one always filled with holes,
But he failed to make that connection and could not acknowledge it, like how the expectant joy from a child,
Is sapped and slowly leaked, even before the child arrives, the gray guilt taking years to overcome,
The clarity arrives much too late. This short conversation, one I didn’t expect, allowed me to understand the
meaning in sallowness, though without knowing the calligraphy, the understanding and the expectancy
Of it rolled down the basin sides, letting it swirl, then finding the drain.