the waiting room

poetry

an hour passes
and i’m still here
waiting on,
fulfilling the room’s purpose;

so at least one of us should be glad,
basking in the glow of fulfillment,
being what we were created to be,
and perhaps that one is me.

perhaps i should be glad
to wait on my betters,
to be at their call,
paying them to be my betters.

but still the anger rises
and the visions of outbursts
pass before my unoccupied mind,
internally, impotently screaming,
waiting for my turn to come.

plus, we’ll save a ton on gas

poetry

i’m on the line–
crouched waiting for
that pistol to
fire i’m living in
those breaths before
the explosion of
gunpowder and
tendons–

i feel the
nauseous anticipation
hating now this space–
waiting now for life–
holding now our worlds–
until the suture heals
and we are one–
not even a scar to
show we were once
otherwise–