Waiting is Extremely Strange

Waiting is extremely strange.

It makes extraordinary use of the illusory.

The malleable range and tractability of time

appears to serve us, while we’re waiting,

like a sneaky slave: nickeling and diming us:

behaving as if nothing mattered but

our chock-a-block invention of the numbers

on a clock. Ticking seconds strive

and beckon – carrying the narrative

of exigent conditions: proclaiming

the perdition we shall pass into if we do not

pursue The True: predicated on the hope that if

the yearned-for thing occurs we all be all right.

But sometimes, while we’re waiting through

the night and day and night, the burrs

and feathers of another inner sight

may ferret us away. Time is then

forgotten – waiting, misbegotten.








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