The Wait
Are you here, or are you waiting. When will it happen,
the next event, a shift. Your mind on your body’s roof,
looking up. The world’s enunciation turns crystalline.
You are concentrating on the future. Readying your eyes
for the bus, once it turns onto your block. Psychically
connecting with the phone to act the instant it is possessed
by the call. Anything not directly in front of you loses shape,
collapses, melts. Signs are everywhere, lightbulbs snap
and die, you run out of postage stamps. You slice a finger
scrubbing a knife. A song begins, slams your inner accelerator.
Now? Tonight? Next year? You’ve been promised magic,
a secret, glimmering door. You wait to be pushed through.
I cannot believe this poem. Have you been reading my diary? Truly, these lines "You’ve been promised magic,
ReplyDeletea secret, glimmering door. You wait to be pushed through" are all about the post I have up today. Crazy-wild synchronicity!
I'm in seven different types of waiting right now. This poem says it so well - you've been promised the magic...signs are everywhere...
ReplyDeleteI am here. It's nice here.
ReplyDeleteThat is just so evocative and intriguing.
ReplyDelete