Waiting


there is a certain
poignancy in waiting.

moments when you are
poised for flight,
for change,
for the languor
of beginnings
that make you believe ( finally!) in fantastic deaths.

there is a certain wretchedness
in waiting.

seconds when
suddenly, everywhere
you are alone.
and your hands that
were minutes
so lively
now are spent
and quiet,
like fitful birds that
have been shot
by the rancor of
false hope.

there is a certain
timelessness in waiting.

as if you have always been
in this exact spot.
your sighing fists, memory boxes
holding warm stars,
conversations spilling out of tainted mugs,
the broken music
of his voice.