Waiting For Harold

A poem for my Gandfather, Harold Schueler

Anticipation,
like a child waiting
for father to come
home, he's sitting
on the lumpy bed.
Toes tapping and lip
biting, he cannot
fully express what
time you will be back;
though not being much
alarmed when the old
electric doorbell
rings and a smile comes
to his face knowing
that you are outside.