Ideal Reader

Every morning, she waited
For the messages to come.
She felt like they were for her—

If not for her, exactly,
Then certainly for someone
Alert and patient enough

To decipher them. She was.
She believed she was. She was
Careful not to discuss them

With anyone. They were hers,
Her secret knowledge, not some
Social media cabal

Whispering amongst themselves.
These messages were arrows
Arcing out into the night.

She was the one who caught them
At her desk by dawn, in flight.
She came into work early

Every morning and waited
Patiently, attentively,
Someone watching shooting stars.

She wondered if they would stop.
Some mornings they seemed to pause.
But then, no, another one,

Then, another one. Each one
That emerged, she scrutinized.
There had to be a person

Behind them all. Maybe more
Than one soul, a message team,
There were so many of them.

But she thought it should be one,
And maybe not a person,
Not exactly—the whole world

Seemed to be speaking to her,
Inscrutable and anguished.
She waited. She scrutinized.