They read over his shoulder
And shyly watch his fingers
Tap the keyboard.
They tentatively step closer:
First one, then a few more.
“When will he notice us?”
He sighs over the keyboard
As a weight he was never meant to bear
Bruises every word
That appears on the screen.
They watch without speaking
And wish he’d turn around.
One reaches and softly brushes a tear
From his cheek.
Another wants to speak
But thinks better of it.
They stay with him as he sleeps
— These verses and phrases that wait for their friend.
One finally catches his eye in a dream.
At 2am he awakens, surprised at his optimism.
“Must be the sound of the crickets,”
He muses.
With coffee in hand,
He sits up straight at the keyboard.
The others wring their hands
As one steps forward and
Taps his shoulder —
These new words and characters
Who live only for him,
So that he can breathe life
Into their unheard stories.
Judith C Evans (c) 2018
